CONTENTS
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CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 1
Tracy Crosswhite watched the minivan pull into the parking lot,
noting a car seat strapped into the backseat and a yellow “Child
On Board” placard dangling in the window. The woman who got
out wore a black ballistic vest, blue jeans, and a Seattle Mariners
baseball cap.
“Detective Crosswhite?”
Tracy shook the woman’s hand and noticed that it felt small
and soft. “Just Tracy. You’re Officer Pryor.”
“Katie. I really appreciate this. I’m sorry to take up your time
after hours.”
“Not a problem. Teaching helps keep me sharp. Do you have
glasses and ear protection?”
“Not my own.”
Tracy hadn’t thought it likely Pryor would have her own gear.
“Let’s get you fitted then.”
She led Pryor into the squat concrete building, the office of
the Seattle Police Athletic Association. Like most shooting ranges,
it was remote, at the end of a narrow drive in an industrial area
twenty minutes south of downtown Seattle.
The man behind the counter greeted Tracy by her first name,
and Tracy made the introduction. “Katie, this this Lazar Orlovic.
She’ll need eye and ear protection, and we’ll need a target, a
couple boxes of ammo, and a roll of tape.”
“Training for the qualification test? Coming up in what, a
couple weeks?” Lazar smiled at Pryor. “You’re in good hands.” He
pulled boxes of ammunition and protective glasses off shelves
and hooks behind the counter. “We keep trying to get Tracy to
make it official and come down here full-time to train the newbies.
What do you say, Tracy?”
“Same as always, Lazar. I’ll come when people stop killing
each other.”
“Right, and when farts stop smelling.” Lazar looked around
the counter. “I’ll have to get the tape from the back.”
When Lazar was gone, Pryor asked, “Why do we need tape?”
“To cover the holes in your target.”
“I’ve never seen that done before.”
“You’ve never shot as much as you’re about to.”
Lazar returned and handed Tracy a roll of blue tape. She
thanked him and led Pryor back outside. “Follow me,” she said
and slid into the cab of her 1973 F-150 Ford truck. She’d sold her
Subaru after returning from Cedar Grove. She could have
afforded something new, but the older-model truck fit her. The
engine took a few minutes to warm, especially on cold mornings,
and the body had a few nicks and dents, but overall it didn’t look
half-bad for its age. Besides, the truck reminded Tracy of the truck
her father drove to their shooting competitions when she and her
sister, Sarah, were kids.
Two hundred yards down cracked pavement filled with
potholes, Tracy parked near the entrance to the Seattle Police
Combat Range. She got out to the familiar pop-pop sound of
discharging guns and the barking of large dogs. She had no idea
what brain trust had decided to put the SPD K-9 kennel adjacent
to the shooting range, but she felt bad for the dogs, and anyone
who had to spend more than a minute in the kennel listening to
them.
The range was accessed through a gate in an eight-foot
cyclone fence with a single strand of razor wire strung across the
top. Tracy blew warm air into her fists while waiting for Pryor. The
weather forecast was typical for a March evening, cold with a light
drizzle. Perfect for training purposes.
“How should we start?” Pryor asked.
“You shoot. I watch,” Tracy said.
Fifteen plywood shooting stations, or “points,” stood twenty
five yards from a metal overhang cantilevering over a sloped
hillside littered with spent bullets. Tracy chose the station farthest
to the left, closest to the kennel but away from the two men
shooting on the right side of the range. She spoke over the
barking and the reverberating bursts from the shooters’ guns.
“We’ll start with the failure drill, three yards from the target, three
seconds to fire four shots. Two rounds to the body, two rounds to
the head.”
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