“No.” The word is quavering and soft. I go over to the table and reassemble my Ruger. It’s not a good gun for beginner. A Glock would be better, but I don’t like those and, more importantly, I don’t have one with me. This piece will have to do.
I carry it over and hand it to her butt first. Her hands curl around the stock and her finger is immediately on the trigger.
“Nuh-uh, uh.” I pull her trigger finger out and rest it along the barrel. “Only put your finger on the trigger when you’re going to pull it,” I instruct. This time her nod is matched by some understanding in her eyes.
“See the switch here? It’s the safety." I slide her thumb along the safety, making her push it up and down. “Up and the safety is engaged. Down, it’s not.” I wait for her acknowledgment and watch her flip the switch a couple of times. I take her other hand and pull back on the barrel. “Your chamber is loaded. The gun is hot. You disengage the safety and wrap both hands around the stock.” I pull her left hand off and fold it around her right hand. “The SR45 has a soft recoil, but it’s still going to kick which makes you point upward. Always bring your gun back down when you shoot or you’ll only hit the ceiling.”
“Pull back the chamber, disengage the safety. Got it.” She rubs her index finger almost lovingly along the side of the barrel and my junk starts swelling again. Shaking my head at my own dumb response, I redouble my efforts to concentrate on showing Regan the rudimentary steps of using a handgun.
I pull the gun from her hands, but she won’t release her grip. I tug on it and then promise, “I’ll give it back. Just a minute.” Reluctantly, she lets the weapon slide out of her hands. Pulling back on the slide, I release the bullet we’ve chambered and then press the magazine release. It drops into my hand and I push the bullet back in. Checking to make sure the safety is still on, I hand her back the gun and then walk out fifteen paces, which puts me right in the kitchen about ten feet from the door. “Wait until your intruder is right here and then shoot. Anything farther away and you’re bound to miss.”
She scowls at me. “Because I’m a girl?”
“Because you haven’t shot a gun before. Doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or a guy,” I correct. “I’m going to run out and get you some clothes and shoes and a case and…” I wave my hand toward her body. “Other stuff. When I come back, I’ll say my name. If I think you’re in danger, I’ll say ‘Honey, I’m home’ and that’s your signal to run to the bedroom, grab my pack, and climb out onto the fire escape. Instead of going down, go up to the roof and wait there.”
“I thought you said the windows were nailed shut.” She scowls at me.
“I lied.”
“And if you don’t come?” A fearful look creeps into her eyes.
I crouch down so we’re both eye level. “I’m coming back for you, Regan. I won’t leave you until you’re safe. I promise.”
“Why?”
It’s an easy question and there are easy answers if I trusted her to keep her mouth shut, but it’s not just my life that is on the line. It’s Nick and his girl Daisy, who happens to be Regan’s best friend. I don’t know what story they want me to tell her, so until I can make contact with them, I have to keep my mouth shut. But I don’t want to leave her hanging.
“Because you’re too important not to save.” I know it’s the truth the minute I say it. I’m not going to let her be hurt again, not on my watch, not while I’m still breathing. Because I’m a stupid piss, I lean in even closer and I give her a soft kiss on her temple. The air around us grows thick with tension. I know what the tension is on my side because I can feel my pants getting too tight. Her tension is fear based. I stand swiftly, feeling something like embarrassment, and pull up my pants to check my service revolver strapped around my ankle.
“Why can’t I have that gun?” she asks. “It looks like it would be easier to shoot.”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “This baby only has a .22 and your big girl gun is a .45. You can shoot a lot bigger holes with a .45.”
Shrugging on a loose-fitting linen top over my beater tank to cover the two knives I have strapped to my sides, I turn to face Regan. She’s pointing the goddamn gun at me. “You aiming to shoot me, sugar?”
“What?” She looks confused and a little distressed.
“Then don’t point the gun at me.” I point to the ceiling. “You only point the gun at a target, so ceiling or floor unless I’ve done something to piss you off so much that nothing short of a bullet is going to clear the air.”
She flushes but lowers the gun.
“Good girl.” I pull open the door. “What’s our code?”
“Your name is safety. ‘Honey, I’m home’ is danger.”
“Good girl.” I repeat and close the door behind me. The door’s thin and I can hear a muffled sob and then a deep breath. Then…nothing. Good girl, indeed.
I run downstairs, not wanting to be gone too long. The drumbeat in my blood says that Regan needs me back soon, soon, soon.
Once on the street, I head for Copacabana Palace Hotel. While there are dozens of small stalls along the beach, I figure it will be easier to get everything I need from one place. But first . . . I duck down the first alley I come to and then wait three heartbeats. When my tail, a dark-haired male in his late twenties with pock marks and loud boots, pauses at the mouth of the alley, I reach out and grab his windpipe. His hands come up to claw at my fingers, but my grip doesn’t abate. With a fierce jerk, I pull him into the narrow passage between the two cement structures. It’s easy to swing his head back against the wall, and though he might outweigh me by a good twenty pounds, I’m far stronger than him and at least four inches taller. My forearm keeps him from breathing for thirty seconds. When he’s turning blue and his breath is noisy and labored, I ease off slightly.