Chapter 2 - The Challenge of the Yellow Timer
The laughter that rippled through the wooden shelter was short, dry, and practiced. Dennis’s former partner, an obese former sergeant named Miller who still wore his silver detective shield as a belt buckle, chuckled into his paper plate of potato salad.
“Go easy on her, Dennis,” Miller wheezed, adjusting his aviator sunglasses. “They probably make them fill out an environmental impact statement before they release the safety on those things.”
Dennis chuckled, feeding on the approval of his peers. He reached into the wide cargo pocket of his trousers and pulled out a bright yellow competition shot timer. The handheld electronic box was scarred from years of range use, its lanyard wrapped tight around his thick fingers. He gave the rubberized start button a test click; the machine emitted a piercing, mechanical squeal that cut cleanly through the sound of the wind.
“I’m serious,” Dennis sneered, taking three heavy steps forward until the crunch of his work boots on the gravel stopped right behind Willa’s left shoulder. He leaned in, his breath sour with charred meat and cheap hops. “We’ve been listening to Martha brag about your rank for two years. Sergeant First Class. Sounds real impressive on Christmas cards, kid. But out here on the line, paperwork don't stop a threat.”
Willa did not turn her head. Her gaze remained pinned to the ten-ring of the paper target fifty feet away. The paper flapped slightly in the heat, the silhouette chest marked with faint gray scoring lines.
“I’m off duty, Dennis,” Willa said. Her voice was remarkably steady, possessing a quiet, conversational cadence that offered neither deference nor aggression. Her American accent was crisp, clipped, and devoid of the performative swagger that dripped from Dennis’s tongue.
“Off duty?” Dennis scoffed, waving the yellow timer in the air like a gavel. “That’s what I thought. You military police types walk around bases with loaded sidearms, acting like real operators, but when it’s time to show a clock, suddenly it’s all protocol and safety stand-downs. What’s the matter? Scared these old county boys are gonna see that your draw stroke takes three calendar days?”
A few of the retired cops stepped out from beneath the shade of the shelter, leaning against the timber posts, crossing their arms over their rounded bellies. They looked at Willa with amused curiosity. To them, she was just little Willa Sutter—the quiet girl who left town at eighteen, now standing in uniform trousers trying to look tough in front of men who had spent thirty years patrolling the rougher trailer parks of Spokane County.
“Dennis, please,” Martha called out from the table, her voice wavering with a mother’s exhausted dread. “It’s the Fourth of July. Nobody needs to be competing. Put that ridiculous timer away.”
“Stay out of it, Martha,” Dennis barked without looking back. “The girl wants to wear the uniform at my barbecue, she can back it up on my line. Unless, of course, the United States Army taught her to run away from a buzzer.”
He stepped directly into Willa’s peripheral vision, holding the yellow box twelve inches from her cheek. His thumb rested on the start toggle. His gray beard parted in an ugly, self-satisfied grin.
“Standard seven-yard draw,” Dennis challenged, pointing a thick, calloused finger downrange at the clean paper target. “From a locked Level Two retention holster. One round on the steel plate inside the paper silhouette. If you can break two seconds, I’ll buy you a box of nine-millimeter. If you can’t, you admit to the whole table that your career is a glorified desk job.”
Willa slowly lowered her hands from her tactical belt, letting her arms hang naturally at her sides. Her shoulders settled. The small, frantic world of Dennis’s insecurities, his retired buddies, and the barbecue smoke faded into an irrelevant gray fog.
For eleven years, she had trained under masters whose names Dennis would never be cleared to know. She had spent thousands of hours in shoot-houses where milliseconds meant the difference between a team walking out or a flag-draped transfer case at Dover. She had instructed federal tactical units, specialized response teams, and international assault elements on the biomechanics of lethal weapon presentation.
She looked at Dennis. Her hazel eyes were cool, deep, and completely untroubled.
“Set the par,” Willa said softly.
May you like
Dennis’s smirk widened, believing he had lured her into a trap. He stepped back two paces behind her right shoulder, raised the yellow timer, and cleared his throat for the benefit of his audience.
“Show us, desk clerk,” Dennis sneered.
