(Revised 12/15/2022)
This story came from out of nowhere. We'd been in a bit of a dry spell. We began approaching a number of potential stories which would continue the narratives of those we've already published, but decided we'd employ a couple of characters as "cameos" in the story which developed.
If you want to avoid the resulting spoiler, you might want to read
The Flight Before Christmas
first.
A bit of a trigger warning (pun intended): This story is told through the eyes of someone who values second amendment rights. To our readers who aren't familiar with the US constitution, this means it features characters who support the right to keep and bear firearms. To soften the warning: there's very little political discourse below. However, if any depiction of shooting sports and the like irks you, please give your browser a click of the back button.
Shortly after this was first published, the comments began to get a little heated. So, we're handling them differently than we do in our others. If a comment tries to lean into a political debate, it's going to be deleted whether we agree or disagree. We simply do not want the comments section to become a venue for politics, and we hope you can understand our decision.
As always, all characters engaging in adult activities are eighteen or older.
We hope you enjoy:
Pulling a Trigger
"Do what I say, and I won't cut you. Put your jewelry and phone in your purse, set it on the ground, and
run
," I growled at the woman.
The still air was warm and humid, amplifying the closed-in feel. She was likely feeling the onset of the fight-or-flight instinct as soon as she realized she'd walked into a blind alley. I held a butterfly knife close to my shoulder with its pointed blade extending toward the woman standing six feet in front of me who I'd maneuvered into a corner.
"One step closer to her, you're dead," I heard a man say behind me.
I was confused seeing tears forming in the woman's eyes. No one had ever before done such a thing so quickly. I looked over my shoulder to see the muzzle of a pistol pointed at my head.
"Take it easy, man! It's all good! Don't shoot!" I shouted.
"Shut up and take two steps back," he ordered.
I considered the many options but decided to comply.
"Drop the knife and get down on your knees. Keep your back to me," he demanded.
As I slowly conceded, I thought to myself,
Damn it. He had to do the knees thing.
"Kick the knife away from him and get behind me," he said to the woman.
She stood motionless, apparently paralyzed.
"Brenda!" he yelped. "Hey!"
She then did what he'd asked.
"Babe, I've got my hands full, so you need to call 911. Tell the operator I'm holding a disarmed mugger at gunpoint, and the man with the pistol is your husband and is licensed to carry."
"The address is forty-eight forty-one West Airport Boulevard," I added. "Tell them to get ready to copy a physical description of me. Approximate height, weight, style and color of hair, clothing, any visible tats or piercings, shoes,
everything
you see, because, if I were inclined to bolt, every unit within a half-mile of here would have all of it on their consoles.
"Otherwise, there'd be the delay. The responding unit would have to arrive then rapid-fire quiz your memory before it would get out there. It dramatically increases the chances of apprehending someone if they have a good description quickly."
The other guy sounded like he was trying not to laugh but failed. I heard him engage the safety, decock, then holster his weapon which was chambered with an inert snap cap cartridge.
"A mugger giving helpful advice seems an odd choice, but okay," he observed with another chuckle.
I turned over on my back and held out a hand. "Help a bad guy up?"
He grasped my forearm, and I gripped his. He used his weight to aid me to my feet.
"Thanks," I offered, dusting myself off. "Remember. Even though the police would've been informed about you being the one with the gun, they won't assume the situation hasn't changed. They'll be pointing their own pistols at you and demand you disarm yourself and lay down. They'd handcuff us both, maybe even her, until everything is completely defused and sorted. Cooperate fully, and it'll all work out."
"Understood. That's useful info."
"Were you ready to pull the trigger?" I asked.
"If you made another move toward her, I'd have done it in a heartbeat."
"Good."
"Too real, Todd. This was way too real," Brenda said.
Hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. Something was off.
He wrapped her in his arms and drew her close. I heard her sniffle softly.
"You hesitated, Brenda," I admonished gently as I bent to retrieve my prop knife.
She sighed. "Yeah, I know."
"Don't worry about it. That's what this sort of training is for. As soon as you heard the flip of my butterfly's guards, you should have drawn down on me."
"Go easy, Rick. This simulation was—"
"A bit intense, huh?"
"Understatement of the year," Brenda said. "You looked at me like my first husb—our eldest child's biological father …"
"Don't say anything else if you don't want to," Todd said, comforting his wife.
Oh, fuck,
I thought to myself.
I've stirred up a mess.
"You didn't ask for this scenario, did you?" she asked her husband.
"No," he and I simultaneously answered.
"He didn't," I continued. "What happened? I've crossed some sort of a line, haven't I."
"The scenario was very … familiar. I experienced a similar situation some years ago, and this hit close to home," Brenda answered.
We were standing in one of the exterior zones at my business, Option Two Tactical, in Stafford, Texas. The safety, security, and predictability of an indoor lane of a climate-controlled shooting range is a useful experience, but Todd Carlson added tactical defense training to his repertoire. His wife, Brenda, found it similarly worthwhile.
Bolting on such skills and experiences increases safety for everyone involved. Pulling the trigger to punch holes in a paper target is one thing. Learning when or when
not
to pull the trigger is another.
Brenda's visceral reaction during the simulation hinted to me she'd been the victim of an assault at knifepoint at some time in her past. I could imagine how an unexpected recreation of it could have been traumatic but could also be worthwhile in its own right. If I'd have somehow known, I would have approached it very differently.
"Understood. Forgive me, Brenda. I didn't intend to resurrect a past trauma."
"I know you didn't," she said. "Don't worry about it."
"Did you learn anything?" I asked.
Brenda nodded vigorously with a rueful laugh.
"Good. Let's get back inside where it's cool and watch the video recordings," I said, unlocking one of the rear doors to the main building.
The outdoor "theater" was secured and obscured by screening fences. The architects were probably insightful in thinking things could possibly go south if unaware passers-by were to observe instructional simulations and misconstrue them as actual crimes in progress. The inside of the building had other structures within it configured for various kinds of drills.
My previous employer was the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, where I was the armorer and lead training instructor at the south Texas branch office. I was sent out to pasture due to a work-related injury, but, given my skill set, I was able to open Option Two Tactical and have seldom looked back.
My business's bread and butter were contracts to provide recurrent training to law enforcement officers from municipalities or counties which couldn't afford or didn't want to deal with the logistics of such things themselves. They constituted at least sixty percent of my clientele. There were no shortages of ordinary civilians or sponsored sportsmen who engaged our services and facilities for practice. We also offered foundational training and basic classes such as our certified concealed carry courses.
The Carlsons and I settled into a team room in the office area and reviewed the high-definition digital video taken from numerous exterior cameras dotting the facility. We debriefed for about a half hour as I jotted notes on gaps to cover in later sessions. The simulation we'd ended the night on was the last of three, so there was lots to drill into. All in all, they'd done well. We wrapped up the evening at 9:30.
I walked Todd and Brenda to their car and closed the electrically actuated gate to block off the parking lot from the street after they drove away. I then went back inside and locked myself in the building.
As far as my staff knew, I always arrived at work before and left after them, but … no. The classroom section held another place no one else ever saw: the 900-square-foot apartment in which I lived.
I removed my knee brace with a sigh of relief, relaxed myself onto the couch, and cracked open a Shiner Bock and a book by an author one of my employees was raving about. She lent me her copy of
Escaping the Depths
by Grant Robins. I was barely a hundred pages in when I decided to order my own copy, but in hardback instead of paperback, as well as the next two in the series.
When yawns of fatigue began to hit me at nearly one o'clock, I bookmarked the page and went to bed.
I rose at seven, later than my usual time. My body appreciated the extra hour, and I didn't feel one bit guilty about sleeping in since no one else would be arriving for two more hours. I reviewed the day's schedule of clients and customers and assigned the various badged law enforcement officers to instructors. I found it useful to split groups up. If officers from different departments were mixed together, the knowledge shared often benefited them all.
When my office admin arrived, she gave me the rundown of the non-governmental people wanting specific training.
"These three are a team named Lone Star Sport Shooters. They want to do unknown gun drills."
"
Ell triple ess
