Damned if you do...
Twenty-five yards. She's puttin' holes in a piece of paper. Tight group, center of mass. Requals are three days away. It's a necessary evil. Keeps 'um from falling into that nasty catch-22. They go out each day, hopin' and prayin' they don't walk into a situation that requires them to pull that trigger. If it sits in the holster though, unused and ignored... The skills are lacking when that moment finally comes.
She's finishing her second box. The range is full. Shells are flying. The Range Master is busy in the back sweeping up brass. Louder than anything known to man.
That's when she feels it. A pair of eyes are watching her from the side. It's somebody she recognizes from narcotics. Johanson? Johnson? Something. He starts batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. With a flamboyant air, he raises his hand to his lips and moves it to his rear. The word that follows is easily read as "Dyke". Laughter is drowned out by gun fire.
Her eyes narrow.
She reaches for the pulley switch. Without turning her head, she reels in the latest paper. Jackass is enjoying the show.
She pins up a new sheet, sends it out. Re-loads the Glock. Sets it down. Steps back. She gestures for drug boy to pick it up. The message is clear.
Lets see who's the better shot, piss ant.
His face lights up. He swaggers on over, holstering his own. Others have started to take notice. Some have stopped shooting all together. One high cap later, the entire crew is crowded 'round. The paper comes sailing back. The gun is replaced on the mat.
Montoya watches as he lays the targets side by side. Some are better. Some are worse. There's no clear victor.
His face starts to turn a flustered shade of red. In a flagrant disregard for range rules, he strips off his muffs in disgust.
"Now tell me what goddamn bit of difference it makes, police," Montoya spits.
She picks up her sidearm and she's gone.
She's finishing her second box. The range is full. Shells are flying. The Range Master is busy in the back sweeping up brass. Louder than anything known to man.
That's when she feels it. A pair of eyes are watching her from the side. It's somebody she recognizes from narcotics. Johanson? Johnson? Something. He starts batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. With a flamboyant air, he raises his hand to his lips and moves it to his rear. The word that follows is easily read as "Dyke". Laughter is drowned out by gun fire.
Her eyes narrow.
She reaches for the pulley switch. Without turning her head, she reels in the latest paper. Jackass is enjoying the show.
She pins up a new sheet, sends it out. Re-loads the Glock. Sets it down. Steps back. She gestures for drug boy to pick it up. The message is clear.
Lets see who's the better shot, piss ant.
His face lights up. He swaggers on over, holstering his own. Others have started to take notice. Some have stopped shooting all together. One high cap later, the entire crew is crowded 'round. The paper comes sailing back. The gun is replaced on the mat.
Montoya watches as he lays the targets side by side. Some are better. Some are worse. There's no clear victor.
His face starts to turn a flustered shade of red. In a flagrant disregard for range rules, he strips off his muffs in disgust.
"Now tell me what goddamn bit of difference it makes, police," Montoya spits.
She picks up her sidearm and she's gone.