Stuart Woods - Heat

“You done much shooting in your time?” Casey asked.

“A good bit.”

“What with?”

“I’ve owned a twelve-gauge shotgun for birds and a thirty-ought-six for deer.”

“Handguns?”

“Somebody gave me a World War Two-vintage forty-five automatic once. I could never hit anything with it.”

Casey was rummaging in the trunk. “A formidable weapon at close range, but a pig otherwise. The newer stuff is a lot easier to handle. Give me a hand, will you? Grab that ammunition box.” Casey walked away from the car with a cased rifle under his arm and a canvas hold-all in the other hand.

Jesse picked up the ammunition box, and it was a lot heavier than he’d expected. As he closed the trunk lid a Mercedes sedan drove into the clearing, and Jack Gene Coldwater got out.

“Good morning, Pastor,” Jesse said.

“Good morning, Jesse; glad you could join us.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Shooting is a hobby of mine.” Coldwater took a large bag that looked as though it might hold skis from the backseat of his car.

Casey removed an assault rifle from his gun case. “Come over here, Jesse, and try this.”

Jesse accepted the weapon and looked it over as if he’d never seen one.

“It’s an AR-fifteen that’s been converted to an M-sixteen,” Casey said. “Only takes a few legally obtained parts and it becomes fully automatic.” He showed Jesse how to operate the weapon, then attached a paper target to a metal rack and pulled a rope until the target was against the bank a hundred feet away. “Try a few rounds.”

Jesse brought the rifle up and fired carelessly in the direction of the target. He was expert in this, but he certainly didn’t want to appear so. Holes appeared in the top right-hand quadrant of the target.

“You’re pulling the trigger,” Casey said. “Do it more slowly and squeeze.”

Jesse fired more rounds and brought them closer to the center of the target.

“Looking good,” Casey said.

Coldwater stepped up to the firing line, shoved a clip into his own rifle and emptied it quickly. The bull’s-eye became one large hole.

“That’s very fine shooting,” Jesse said.

“My country taught me well,” Coldwater replied. “A little practice, and you’ll do well, too.”

“Try the prone position,” Casey said, spreading a blanket. He helped Jesse arrange his body into the proper position.

Jesse fired more carefully prone, then moved into a sitting position, then into a kneeling position. With each clip his accuracy improved.

“I believe you’re a natural, Jesse,” Coldwater said. “Draw a finer bead; you’re still a little high.”

Jesse followed instructions, and his target no longer had a center.

“Let’s try a handgun,” Casey said, removing a pistol from his hold-all. “This is a Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter automatic.” He instructed Jesse on loading and firing, then stepped back.

Jesse turned his shoulder toward the target and fired a round. It went high and wide of the target. “Not so good,” he said. “I haven’t had much experience with handguns.”

“Turn your body square to the target,” Casey said, “and support your shooting hand with your left. Again, squeeze off your rounds.”

Jesse obeyed, and his shots began to hit the target, although erratically. He concentrated on seeming to concentrate, but he didn’t allow himself to improve much.

Coldwater stepped up. “Watch me,” he said. He assumed a firing position and emptied a clip into his target. Again, the bull’s-eye disappeared.

“You look a lot more relaxed than I do,” Jesse said.

“That’s right. You were much too tense.”

Jesse rolled his head around and shook his arms to loosen up. “Keep both eyes open this time,” Coldwater said. “Don’t draw a bead, just point where your eyes fall on the target.”

Jesse squeezed off a round and clipped a corner of the bull’s-eye.

“Much better. Now use up the clip, but do it slowly, one at a time.”

Jesse kept firing, and put everything near, but not in, the bull’s-eye.

“A little off, but a nice grouping,” Casey said, taking Jesse’s pistol and reloading it.

“If your target had been a man, he’d be very dead,” Coldwater said. He shoved a new clip into the pistol and handed it to Jesse.

“That’s what you’re going to be, Jack Gene,” a strange voice said. “Very dead.”

Jesse was already in the firing position, and he swiveled his head to the left to see what was going on. Phil Partain, his face very red, stood ten yards beyond Coldwater, a heavy revolver in his hand. It was pointed at the pastor’s middle.

“I’ve had enough,” Partain said. “You won’t give me any responsibility; you give me shit work to do, and there’s no respect for me in this crowd.” He thumbed the hammer back.

Jesse realized he was the only other person with a firearm. Without moving his feet, he turned his upper body toward Partain and put a round into the man’s right shoulder. Partain’s weapon fired wild, but he held onto it; he spun around and fell face-down, the pistol still in his hand. He began struggling to get up.

Coldwater reached out and took Jesse’s pistol. He walked the few paces to where Partain lay and stepped on his gun hand. “Well, Phil, you’ve made a big mistake, haven’t you?”

“Please, Jack Gene,” Partain squealed, “don’t hurt me. I’ll do good, I’ll do right by you. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want you to die, Phil,” Coldwater said, then fired one round into the back of the man’s head. Partain convulsed, then lay still.

“Jesus,” Jesse said. He had shot to wound, but Coldwater had simply executed the man.

“That was a nice shot, Jesse,” Coldwater said calmly, turning away from Partain’s corpse. “Where were you aiming?”

“At his bellybutton, I think,” Jesse replied. “I hardly thought about it, I just fired.”

“You were high and to the left, but of course, you weren’t in position, and you didn’t have much time. I thank you.” He clapped Jesse on the back.

“Is he dead?” Jesse asked.

Casey walked over to the body and looked at it. “You bet he is.” He bent over, picked up Partain’s pistol and wiped the dirt from it. “It’s just as well; Phil was at the end of his usefulness.”

“Well, I guess we don’t have to call the cops,” Jesse said.

Coldwater laughed aloud. “I guess not. Pat, get rid of that,” he said, nodding at Partain’s body.

“Toss me that blanket, Jesse,” Casey said.

Jesse picked up the blanket he’d been firing from and took it to Casey.

“Open the trunk, there, will you?”

Jesse opened the trunk, then watched as Casey rolled Partain’s body into the blanket.

“Give me a hand?”

He helped Casey lift the corpse into the trunk of Casey’s car.

Casey closed the lid and turned to Jesse. “No need to mention this to anybody,” he said.

“Just forget it happened,” Coldwater chimed in. “You’ve removed a nuisance from our midst, not to mention saving our lives, and I’m grateful to you, Jesse.”

Jesse couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well, I think that’s enough shooting for one morning,” Coldwater said, stretching and yawning. “You fellows want some lunch?”

“Sure, Jack Gene,” Casey said. “You hungry, Jesse?”

“I’m not sure,” Jesse replied.

He and Casey got into Casey’s car and followed Coldwater up the mountain to his house.

It was as if they had been expected; the kitchen table was set, and food prepared. Jesse sat down with the two men and had some soup, while they talked of hunting, but he could not forget that Phil Partain’s dead body was outside, in the trunk of Pat Casey’s car. It came home to Jesse, as never before, that if he made a mistake with these people he would be dead very quickly.