The Five seveN’s slide locked back. In a single smooth motion, Alison slammed the pistol back into the holster on her left hip, hitting the mag release as she did. The sudden stop sent the empty magazine flying as she left the gun holstered and grabbed a fresh magazine from a pouch across the small of her back. In went the magazine, up went the five-seven, forward went the slide, and out spat nine rounds of 5.7x28 +P into the chests and heads of the three silhouettes downrange. Two in each chest, one in each head, no misses.
Alison breathed out, holstered the pistol again, pulled the mag, and then racked the slide on her belt, ejecting the chambered round and locking the slide back again before she called out “All clear!” and showed the range boss the gun’s empty firing chamber. Holstering it yet again, Alison and the range boss walked downrange to confirm what they already knew. Nine hits, standard Mozambique drill at seven yards after clearing two Texas stars with the intentionally half full first magazine.
A moment later the LED scoreboard flashed as it updated.
First place now read: LT Alison Holst, USN, retired, 14 seconds, no penalties
“As usual, no misses. You’re making the rest of us look bad Lieutenant Holst.” The balding police Chief jokingly complained to Alison as she walked back past the police officer who was up next. “Can you imagine what would happen if some higher-up who didn’t know who you were saw a five foot nothing lady with one arm out-shooting the entire department? I could lose my job!”
“Do you want me to miss James? I could miss… If I tried.” Alison shot back as she field stripped her five-seven with her left hand, making up for the lack of a right arm by using her teeth as needed. The chief knew better than to offer to help.
“I’m not sure if I believe you. Still, thanks for coming by to drill the boys, they were getting sloppy. I don’t know how you do it, but after an hour with you, it’s like they all suddenly remember how to shoot again.”
There was a lull in the conversation as Alison finished cleaning and reassembling her pistol. She had just holstered it yet again, now clean and loaded, when they both heard someone shouting.
“BOSS!” A man in the parking lot called out as he ran to the shooting range, clutching some papers. He skidded to a stop next to Alison and Chief Gonzalez. “We got a lead!”
Alison snatched the proffered papers from him, scanning them rapidly. “Finally!” She said looking up at her assistant. “Back to the office, you’re driving. Sorry Jim, gotta handle this.”
Chief Gonzalez shook his head as he watched her leave early. She would set aside maybe four days a year to help train his department, so of course she got called away early today of all days.
Alison received her commission at twenty-one years of age, fresh out of the US Naval Academy. Then it was BUD/S, Seal qualifications and then she was in and living the dream.
UNTIL THAT FUCKING GRENADE!
Alison had thrown hundreds of grenades without a single issue, but just as she was about to get her own command, that defective piece of shit blew up in her hand and fucked it all up. The grenade took half her arm, and the surgeons finished the job. Such was the damage that she wasn’t even left with a stump, just a divot where her right shoulder should be.
Of course, it takes more than that to stop an Alison Holst, and less than a year after her medical discharge she had set herself up as a Private Investigator, in addition to learning to do everything for herself with only her left hand.
A few days ago, Alison had answered Dave’s furious call as he hired every PI for 200 miles to find his fluffies and deliver the bastard who had shot him and taken his pets. After taking his details, Alison and her assistant Eric got to work. Searching Dave’s house had been a bust, the police and a few dozen idiots with PI badges had destroyed any evidence that might have been there. It had been Eric’s idea to trawl the internet for any word on someone selling a fluffy that could fix smarties. Even though it had been all over the news, Eric had managed to pluck the needle from the proverbial hay stack.
“Our man’s name is Shane Evans. CIA had his grandfather’s home bugged ages ago, and it would seem that the phone was still tapped. Once AI became prevalent, they just fed all the audio from all their old unused phone taps to the computers and hoped for the best.” Eric handed Alison a coffee before gesturing to one of the many computer screens in the room. “The AI flagged it as ‘attempted sale of a stolen fluffy’ and while that tripped one of the filters I set up, no human reading through hundreds of AI generated reports would give that one a second glance, and obviously nobody’s listening to the calls themselves.”
“Which means that in all likelihood, you and I are the only ones who have actually listened to that recording, so we’re unlikely to get the job stolen from under us. Perfect.” Alison concluded with a smile. “Got the address?”
“Yup”
“Then let’s go.”