Radical (13 page)

I blow past the pistol range and hook to the left, going off trail to cut the angle at the widest curve in the path. I don’t stop until the trees thin and the rifle range is in sight. They haven’t started yet. Carl and two of the older guys are dragging mats off the ATV and positioning target stands of various heights at the far end of the range in front of the dirt berm. Most everyone else is talking in groups behind the barriers marking the firing points for today.

As usual, I can feel the looks bouncing around me — not all are unfriendly, not anymore, but every time there are new faces, or faces I’ve only seen at maybe one other training, I have to weather their once-overs, always with a long pause on my head. My hair’s getting long already. I need to get some clippers or try trimming the sides and back with scissors.

Karen, Trinny, and a few others at least acknowledge me as I drop my range bag and cool down after the all-out sprint. Cammie acts like I’m crashing her party. There’s some laughter, too, as usual, and I can imagine the witticisms being shared by Mark’s mouth-breather friends. Zach spits, not near me, but like he’s proving something.

“Where were you?” I ask Mark when he wanders closer.

“What?” he asks, his fake innocence all about showing off for his friends.

“Dad said —”

“I told Dad,” he says. “I had stuff to do.” Oh, big man with “stuff.” “He’s not paying for my insurance anymore. So I’m not running his errands.”

Selfish shit. He smirks.

“If I were you,” he says, “I’d start thinking about how you’re going to get here when Dad’s working most days again. Maybe you need to finally spend some of that wad you’ve been saving for wheels of your own. Because I am not ferrying you around.”

Jerk. I make a face and lean closer to him. “When’s the last time you did laundry?” I sniff at him. “Because you stink.”

Two steps away and I hear the razzing. The idiot actually sniffed himself.

But the problem still stands. How am I going to get here if Dad’s working or in meetings or wherever, if Mark won’t pick me up? And Dad would have to transport my gun and ammo for me even if I found a way here on my own. Complications I don’t need.

“He was in full tactical gear,” one of the new guys says. I can’t remember which one he is. “Full visor and everything. We got the whole thing on video. The geezer who runs the range nearly shit his pants when he saw him. It was awesome.”

“It was stupid,” Karen says. “They could have arrested him.”

“For what?” the guy asks, turning away from the older guys and toward Karen. Despite the requests that we not open carry at the ranges, his pistol is holstered at his waist and he has a semiauto strapped to his back. Knife at his belt. A little much for a range day. “What did he do that was illegal?”

“Well, you said he was breaking range rules, for one,” Karen says, continuing to check the club’s semiauto rifles, one at a time, on the back of the ATV. “That’s private property. Range owner gets to make the rules. Disturbing the peace. Brandishing, since he had the rifle loaded and in patrol position. Harassment, since he was there to get a rise out of the owner for having him booted. Any number of things.”

“None of them would stick. He was open carrying. That’s legal in this state,” the guy’s friend says.

“On private property, prohibition posted? No, it’s not,” Karen says.

“Yeah,” the first guy says, “it is. Second Amendment trumps some stupid poster.”

Karen gives this new idiot a look and hands yet another safety-checked AR-15 to Carl. Then she looks at Zach. He invited these two.

“Never would have stuck,” the first guy says.

“But why draw the attention?” Karen asks. “What did he gain?”

“You have to exercise your rights if you want to keep them,” the guy says.

“And they need to know they can’t mess with us,” Zach adds. “We’re not pushing back enough, making enough noise, if you ask me.”

“No one’s asking you,” says Karen. “If you all think you’re going to go play
scare the sheeple
and then come here and strut around, we’re not impressed.”

“And you get to decide who comes here and who doesn’t?”

Karen doesn’t answer but stares the guy down. She may not have the say of Randy or Carl, but she has more than most. Her father practically
is
the armory, and he listens to her, and Riggs listens to him.

“Devon,” Zach says. The guy looks at Zach, but he doesn’t move away. He stands there, fingering the strap across his chest, as if he actually thinks he and Karen are in some kind of competition.

Karen doesn’t. She grabs the next AR-15, removes the mag, pulls the bolt back, locks it to the rear, and checks the chamber. Then she hits the bolt release and applies the safety. Then moves on to the next, almost like she could do it in her sleep, until she hands the last one to Carl and hops down from the ATV.

A lot of the guys have their own semiautos. They line up and grudgingly let Carl and Karen see that their mags are out and chambers are empty to make sure the rifles are unloaded. At the same time, Karen and Carl are eyeballing the weapons themselves for illegal modifications or accessories.

“No foregrip,” Karen says.

“What?” Devon asks.

“Can’t have a foregrip on an AR-15 pistol. Angled grip only,” Karen says.

“Says who?”

“The ATF,” Karen says.

“That’s bullshit. I’ve been using this for a year.”

“Then it’s been illegal for a year,” Karen says. “You can use another firearm or a range rifle, but you’re not shooting that here.”

He’s ready to argue, looking around for his backup.

“And while we’re at it,” Karen says, looking at his friend’s AR with a slide stock, “no bump fire, either.”

“Oh, come on!” Devon shouts. “You’ve got to be shitting me. There is nothing illegal about using a slide fire stock. Neal shoots it all the time.”

“No bump fire in group training,” Karen says.

“You’re seriously saying I can’t use a completely legal weapon here?” Neal asks.

“Yeah,” Karen says. “That’s what I’m saying. So you can swap out for a regular stock, get another rifle, or you can leave.”

These guys were a pain in the ass last time, giving Randy trouble about shooting prone. Neal’s not moving to swap out or accept Karen’s directive, and she’s not moving an inch until he does.

“Carl?” Zach says. “Bump fire is totally legal. And a foregrip doesn’t change anything about his pistol.”

Carl steps closer to Karen and crosses his arms. He answers to Randy, and to Riggs, and to Mr. Severnsen. No way is Carl undermining Karen.

“No illegal weapons,” Karen says. “And no bump fire in training.”

“Also no green tips,” Carl says, pointing to the box in Zach’s vest pocket.

“What?” Devon says, leaning around Zach. “Why not?”

“Well, for starters, because we said so,” Carl answers. “When you’re here, you do as we say. But second, range rules. No green tips.”

“Not even in rifles?” Zach asks.

“No.” Carl moves on to the next person. “We can give you some range ammo if that’s all you have.”

“This is bullshit,” Mark says, stepping up next to Zach and his friends. “They’re legal in rifles.”

“In rifles, maybe,” Carl says. “But that armor-piercing stuff chews up the metal targets. So it’s not allowed on the land.”

Mark looks at Daniel and the older guys, waiting for backup, but it’s not coming. None of them are happy about these assholes Zach brought. No one but Zach and Mark.

The standoff doesn’t last long. Karen and Carl clear the others’ weapons and then move over to the firing points with the range rifles the rest of us will take turns using.

“We should be learning what they can do,” Devon says. “At what distance they can cut through tactical gear.”

“And stocking up before they try to ban them again,” Neal says. “All the police departments and sheriffs have military-grade tactical gear. They say it’s for riots, or antiterrorism.”

“Crowd control,” Mark scoffs. “And no one is questioning it.”

Daniel and some of the guys walk away, but four or five are listening.

“It’s just a matter of time,” Devon says now that he sees his audience, “before they come up with some reason to bring out the militarized units and declare martial law.”

“Are they really armor piercing?” Trinny asks, suddenly at my elbow.

“Not really,” I say, but quietly enough not to draw the guys over. “They’re made for rifles, but when shot from handguns, at close range, they can cut through body armor. But so can a lot of other bullets.”

They’re not wrong about militarization, about the pressure building, but green tips aren’t the answer. The open-carry and tactical gear demonstrations aren’t helping, either. We don’t need to be drawing that kind of attention.

“They are banned from the range,” Randy shouts, making everyone jump a little. He steps right up to Devon and Neal. “End of conversation. We catch anyone using them here, and you will be asked to leave. Don’t even bring them here.”

Trinny and I join Cammie at firing point four, but we hang back until our turns. Cammie has her own rifle — obviously optimized to her preferences. She sights down to the berm with the empty rifle, slides into stance, and then relaxes. Her motions are so smooth, from the muscle memory of sliding into stance and relaxing a million times. She’s as good as any of the older guys — maybe better — but she’s not agitating to move beyond the rest of us. Cammie doesn’t cheerlead like Karen. She doesn’t tell any of the girls how great they’re doing or try to puff up their confidence. But she acts like she’s their leader. Encouraging them in her own way. Karen’s as nice to me as she is to the others, but Cammie doesn’t talk to me at all. Not since Karen made her walk me to the lot after that second session. She doesn’t even look at me if she can help it. She sights the targets ahead of her, dry fires, and adjusts her positioning. She glances over her shoulder, catches me looking. Again.

I wish I could take one of the range AR-15s and get a feel for it, practice sighting, figure out how to move with it around obstacles and go from prone to upright. But today I’ll just get to use one when it’s my turn to shoot. I’ve only ever held one of these once or twice at a show. Dad says we don’t need assault rifles for hunting or defense. I wonder if he’s changing his mind.

“This is awesome,” JoJo says, grinning ear to ear. Cammie glares; JoJo waves her off. “You can be cool all you want,” JoJo says. “This is totally awesome.”

JoJo’s been around awhile, maybe nearly as long as Trinny and some of the other girls. But she wasn’t at the first few trainings I went to. When she showed up, she was extra hostile, like I was trying to take her place or something. And now she’s using some stuff to make her hair sort of spiky, like she’s trying to compete with me. She’s no competition. But her spiky hair matches her personality, like a porcupine.

Trinny is wearing a Team Jacob shirt today, and not ironically. Her twin braids are decorated with a stack of different-colored rubber bands at the end of each. She looks even younger than usual. I hope she’s homeschooled. Public school would eat her goofy-elfin self alive. Well, unless she put the hand-to-hand to good use. Dropped a few preppy girls on their butts.

Delia wipes her sweaty forehead on her shirt, showing several inches of fit, toned, dark-skinned abs. Mark is always staring at Delia. So are some of the other guys, but I don’t think
they’re
admiring the view like Mark is. There were some racist comments the first time the open-carry guys came. They got an earful from Carl about how Clearview does not tolerate the kind of shit they were saying. They didn’t kick them out, but at least we don’t have to hear it anymore. And they leave Delia alone. But that might have more to do with Karen and Cammie and most of the older guys having Delia’s back.

Randy is watching the first shooters like a hawk, ignoring the grumbling from the guys about shooting prone.

I’ve seen enough YouTube videos to know that for a lot of wannabes and backyard warriors, guns like these are just a fun way to waste ammo. But to be tactically ready takes work. Especially if they are already thinking about movements and maneuvers. Going from prone to patrol to combat, and in group movements, armed, takes a serious amount of trust and preparation. The guys can grumble all they want, but I’m not. I don’t trust any of them with live ammo outside the range yet. We’re far away from that. Very far. Especially the newer guys. I barely trust them at the range.

“Clear downrange,” Randy calls, followed by: “Eyes and ears.” Cammie relaxes her shoulders, takes a breath, and fires. She adjusts her positioning and fires again. And again. Then smoothly, with no hesitation between shots. No break in the flow. Total concentration, fluid, like the gun is part of her.

The distant
pop-pop-pop
of the first shots bleeds through my earmuffs.
Pop-pop-popopop-pop
. The overlapping shots sound like popcorn kernels. I watch Cammie shoot.

“Might want to wipe your chin,” Mark says. “You’re drooling,” he adds, like I didn’t understand what he was implying.

I ignore him.

“She’s
really
not your type.”

I glare at him.

I don’t care which of the guys she’s dated. I just like to watch her shoot.

Mark, Zach, and both of Zach’s friends are in the next group.

“No green tips,” Carl says to Zach.

“I heard you,” Zach says.

“Just making sure.” Carl watches him load his magazine.

Mark jerks on his first shot, and his second, and Carl steps in to correct his positioning. Some of the others get corrections, too, between rounds. Karen is spending a good amount of time with JoJo.

When it’s my turn, I take my place, load the magazines, and lay them aside until I’m ready to shoot. Carl and Karen are helping some of the others, so I take the opportunity to get comfortable with the rifle.

I brace the butt of the AR-15 against my chest, the gun turned at an angle, and check that the chamber is empty, just to be sure. Then I can sight and dry fire and get a feel for it.

It’s lighter than the last one I held. Or maybe I’m just stronger. It’s also smaller than Cammie’s or Karen’s, and doesn’t have any of the scopes or laser sights a lot of the others have. Still, it’s a nice AR-15 — sixteen-inch barrel, collapsible stock, looks practically new. And Dad is so wrong — I really need one of these that I can trick out the way
I
want it.