Patient and relaxed.
The shooter’s righthand gripped a stainless-steel Colt .45 semiautomatic handgun.
The thumb safety clicked, and the aim still held true. His right index finger smoothly squeezed the trigger. At last, the first round blasted down the barrel at its target.
A hit. The round penetrated center mass.
“Nice shot, Mr. Harrison.”
William Harrison barely detected the compliment through his hearing protectors. Remaining focused on the black silhouette downrange, he nodded a polite acknowledgment to Norm, the range master standing behind him.
More bullets flew toward the target.
With each round, a distinct clap echoed off the surrounding cement walls.
The warm smell of gunpowder thickened in their nostrils and drifted through the other firing lanes, all empty, of Old Pueblo Guns and Range.
Harrison raised his right hand a few degrees and gave Norm a thrill.
“Right between the eyes,” the range master said, chuckling. “Let me see your license to kill.”
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