Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

In the end, annoyed beyond the capacity for speech, Chace had gone down to the ferry and caught a ride across the harbor to Gosport, then walked the remaining two and a half miles to Fort Monkton, only to be further delayed by the guards at the gate, who found it hard to believe that London had sent an agent down on foot for a refresher. Even after finding her name on the "expected" list and double-checking her pass, they'd insisted on searching her person and her bag.

At which point she'd had enough and informed the guard reaching for her that he could try to lay a hand on her, but if he did so he'd likely draw back his arm fractured in such a way that he'd have three major joints on the appendage rather than the more traditional two.

"And get Jim Chester down here right fucking now," she'd added. • The rangemaster, a bitter old retired Royal Marine who demanded that students call him "The Master," remembered her, just as she remembered him. Common lore at the School was that he promoted the appellation not because of his position as the ruler of the firing range but rather because he was a dyed-in-the-wool Doctor Who fan. He brought her four pistols and two hundred rounds of ammunition, along with shooting goggles and ear protection.

"Still know which way to point them, do you?" he asked.

"Why don't you trot downrange and we'll see?"

"Ah, that's the lass I remember. Let's get started, shall we?"

Chace loaded the P99 first, worked through two clips, thirty-two shots, with The Master over her shoulder, heckling, correcting, and generally annoying. She moved to the Browning next, then the HK USP 9, and finally the Walther TPH. The range remained empty but for the two of them the entire time, though as Chace was finishing with the TPH, she began to see other signs of life on the campus, students emerging from the dormitories in their workout clothes, gathering for the morning physical-training regimen.

They were ready to move to the more practical drills when Jim Chester came down the slope of the lawn from the main house to join them, carrying two paper cups of coffee.

"Feeling better this morning?" he asked, offering her one of the cups.

"She can't have that," The Master said, taking the coffee for himself. "Caffeine goes straight to her hands, and she's on to practicals next."

Chace looked at the coffee longingly, then to Chester. "I could have done with more sleep and less aggravation."

"It's aggravation that keeps us safe."

"That aggravation, perhaps. I was on the bloody list, Jim."

"They're just being cautious." Chester gave her a proud smile. "Minder One suits you, I must say. You're as radiant as ever."

"You testing me on pickups, Jim? I look like hell and feel worse."

Chester laughed, patted her on the arm with unconscious condescension. Chace smiled in return, knowing that there were things that would never change, and that James Chester was one of them. In his mid-fifties, balding and fringed with gray, perpetually in tweed, he always reminded her of the don who'd instructed her in eighteenth-century French literature when she'd been at Cambridge. His sexism was bone-deep and unconscious, and manifested in him holding the women who came through the School to a higher standard than the men. Not by much, and never obviously, but enough so that when Chace had graduated with the highest scores anyone had remembered for half a century, they both had known she'd truly earned it.

He'd been heartbroken to see his prize pupil join the Special Section. A waste of her talents, he'd said.

"Well, I won't keep you," Chester told them. "Firearms today, hand-to-hand tomorrow, is it?"

"And the E amp;E refresher."

"Ah, yes, right. We should have lunch if The Master will release you long enough for sustenance."

"She can eat." The Master sounded almost sullen.

"Then I'll see you at twelve-thirty, all right?"

"I'll be looking forward to it," she said, and then added, "Is Tom around?"

"He'll be in this afternoon. Shall I tell him you're here?"

"No." Chace grinned. "Let me surprise him." • The rest of the morning was spent in the simulator, killing video projections with modified pistols that did everything real guns did, but fired light instead of lead. The Master ran Chace through multiple scenarios: take the target in a crowd, in a cafe, in a hallway, on a flight of stairs; take the target with no protection, with two bodyguards, with six, at a traffic stop. What to do if you miss? If the gun jams? If the gun breaks? If you snag the pistol on your draw?

After each exercise, The Master would play back the video he'd recorded of Chace, berating her for her errors, grudgingly acknowledging her triumphs. Much as she was loath to admit it, she'd begun the day rusty. It had passed, and passed quickly, and everything she'd been taught came back as fresh as ever, and it pleased her that she'd even managed to improve in the practicals.

The Master made her wait as he finished her evaluation, telling her to break down and service all of the weapons she had used during the day. When Chace had reassembled the last of the firearms, he dropped the sheet in front of her so she could read her score. Crocker would be pleased, she'd delivered on his demanded five point oh.

Wishing The Master a good evening, Chace headed back to the dormitory. She showered quickly and then, dressed once more, went in search of the only man Tara Chace was certain she had ever truly loved. • The Field School shared Fort Monkton with the Royal Navy, which maintained a submarine-escape training facility on the site, as well as other tactical simulators. The whole area around Portsmouth was thick with RN types, the city and the fleet sharing a long and distinguished history, of which Monkton was but a small part. The site had first seen the construction of Haselworth Castle in 1545; Fort Monkton had been erected some two hundred years later at the behest of the Royal Navy, and a companion fortification and artillery battery, Gilkicker Fort, had been raised nearby later in the eighteenth century.

Both Monkton and Gilkicker were closed to the public. Students at the School were housed on campus, but the instructors were not. Most had their homes in one of the many communities surrounding the harbor, in Portsmouth or Gosport or Fareham. Many of those same instructors chose to drive to work, and the parking lot shared by the Field School and RN staffs was thick with their cars.

There was only one Triumph Spitfire MK I among them, though, and while she'd never seen the vehicle before, Chace had no doubt who it belonged to.

The top was down, so she climbed into the passenger seat and passed the time by rummaging through the glove box, which ended in disappointment when she couldn't find anything embarrassing. She did find an unopened pack of Silk Cut and some matches and, with only some minor internal debate, decided she'd earned a reprieve.

She was smoking her third cigarette when she heard footsteps on the gravel, approaching the car.

"You always were a weak-willed bird," Tom Wallace said.

Chace flicked the cigarette away, leaned over to push open the driver's door, and waited for Wallace to settle behind the wheel before saying, "Let's go someplace where you can get me drunk and then take advantage of me."

"Fucking brilliant," Wallace said, and started the car. • Wallace had been in Gosport long enough to find a pub he liked, the Black Swan, and had been frequenting it enough that the pub had come to like him. While Wallace got them a table, Chace went to the bar to order the first round, two lagers. The barman was old, and old-fashioned, and when he served her one pint, presumably for Wallace, and a half, presumably for her, she sent the half back.

"No, another pint, if you please."

The barman's eyes turned critical. "Not terribly ladylike."