Protecting Max

Chapter 2-4

“You came back,” Deacon said when Max entered the shop.

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“It was fifty-fifty. I got the feeling, despite how quickly you learned how to use your gun, that you aren’t happy about the whole idea.”

Max leaned against the counter, nodding. “I’ve never liked the damned things. Or the idea that they can be a necessary part of some people’s lives. But I accept that that’s true in my case, all things considered. This whole thing might turn out to be a case of smoke with no fire, I hope. But if it isn’t, at least I’ll be prepared.”

“Exactly.” Deacon turned when a woman came into the shop, going over to talk with her.

Max eavesdropped on their conversation, resisting shaking his head in dismay when she told Deacon that she was being stalked by her ex-husband. How many people out there are in her situation? How many men, or women, really believe that they can get someone back by stalking them? Why don’t they accept that it’s over, and move on? If Tony had, I wouldn’t be here. His mouth tightened as he remembered the attack—the disbelief at first, and then the fear when Tony pulled the knife while begging, no, blubbering that he wanted Max to reconsider leaving him—and then the pain. Yeah. If he tries to come after me, I can shoot him, if it will stop that from happening again.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Max started when he heard Deacon’s words, pulling himself back from his memories. “I’m fine. Did you sell her a gun?”

“She’s going to think about it. Are you ready for another lesson?”

“Sure.” Max took his gun from his jacket pocket, earning a raised eyebrow from Deacon. “I can’t…I feels so, real, I guess, if I put it in the holster on my waistband,” Max explained.

“It is real. Or it might be. So put the gun where you can get to it quickly, the way I showed you last night.”

“Okay.” Grimly, Max attached the holster to his waistband as they went into the shooting range.

“Tonight, we’ll start with targets that represent the human form, not bull’s-eye ones,” Deacon told him. “Like what Jack was shooting at last night. After all, when it comes down to it, you’ll be shooting at a man, like it or not.”

“Right.” Max knew that was true, although convincing himself he could actually do it hadn’t happened—yet.

“Okay, take it out. Remember, don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.”

For half an hour, Max practiced with the stationary target. Then, Deacon had him move down to the last of the four lanes, where he’d set up moving targets.

“Damn, this is impossible,” Max said after trying, and missing, hitting them dead-on.

“Stop trying to focus on the chest or head and aim for the whole area, so to speak. Even if you hit an arm or shoulder, you’ll stop your assailant momentarily, giving you time to shoot again before he can recoup. Make sense?”

It did. By the time that lesson ended, Max was hitting at least some part of the target each time. Exhausted, both physically and mentally, he asked if they could quit for the night.

“Of course. Make certain there’s not a bullet in the chamber, set the safety, and put the gun away.” Max did as he was told, then they returned to the shop.

“Are you hungry?” Deacon asked. “It’s closing time and I’m going to head to the diner down the street for something eat. You’re welcome to join me.”

Max was surprised by, but not averse to the offer. “Sure, why not.” From Deacon’s expression, that was the reply he was hoping for.