If we’re to survive this night, then I need to make sure I’m ready.
I take a breath in and nod. “Where do I point?”
“See the fence at the other end of the field?” he asks, and I nod. “Aim for the white picket between the two broken ones.”
He helps me keep my stance as I aim, his breathing growing so shallow I can barely detect it anymore.
“Now, before you take a shot, you inhale… hold your breath. Don’t let your breathing interfere with your aim, or else you will miss every time,” he explains, and I nod, doing as he instructed and holding my breath.
“Now shoot.”
As the gun’s bang resounds around us, I notice I missed.
“In a fight, you won’t have time to check and see if you made a shot, and I don’t have time to teach you so you have trust in your aim. This time, I want you to take your shot and quickly pop off another round. Then another. Making sure to realign your shot each time. The kickback will ruin your aim each time you shoot, remember. Now go,” he says.
It sounds like a lot to remember, but I do my best. I inhale, letting my shoulders relax a little so that I can get a better grip. I’m scared, the loud sounds startling me each time, but it feels powerful as well. The thought that this could save my life—or Mikhail’s—is what keeps me centered.
And then I squeeze the trigger. I don’t even bother to wait this time, though. Instead, I keep staring ahead, my breath burning in my lungs as I pull it again. And again.
As I release my breath, he squeezes my shoulders reassuringly.
“Good, but don’t hold your breath for so long next time. Work on timing it better. You need oxygen in a fight to stay alert, hold your breath only as long as you need to. Now try it again,” he says, and we repeat the exercise a few times until I’m able to hit the target reliably at least once. That requires him retreating to his car to grab a couple extra clips, but he displays such impressive patience with me the whole time.
“I’m gettin’ good, right?” I say, smiling up at him as I twist at the waist. He nods right back.
“You’re a natural. But don’t get too confident. Standing there in a peaceful field and taking your time with shots is nothing like a fight. I know you can keep your cool in a crisis though, so now you’re going to practice shooting and moving. Your aim is always better up closer, and you never want to stand in one spot too long. It makes you an easy target to others. Watch me,” he says, and he pulls out his own gun.
In an impressive display I can never hope to imitate, he holds his handgun out with one hand—not two, like me—and advances on the target. His even pace takes him closer with each of three shots, and I can’t help but marvel at how each of his bullets strikes its mark. It makes my record seem trivial.
“Try it,” he encourages me, and my first attempt is a disaster. I miss all three shots again, just like starting over. And I must look a little crestfallen, because Mikhail squeezes my shoulder as he guides me back to my starting position.
“Moving and shooting is rough, don’t let it dissuade you,” he says in that deep, calming voice of his. “If you can manage to hit the target at all, you’re better than most. Now try again, and remember what I said about your breathing? Try to take your shots on those brief moments your two feet are planted and you’re still. It’s all about timing.”
It’s complicated, but I’m determined, and so I repeat the motions, trying to recreate the magic of watching him move. He’s a trained professional and has been doing this for...how long, exactly? I can’t expect to be as good as him in a single night, but his confidence in me is what spurs me on. If he’s an expert, and he has faith in me, then I should have faith in myself too.
Besides, I did take down the guy who was going to kill us both. I did what I had to, when push came to shove, and if I could only just trust my instincts once more...
We repeat the maneuvers again and again and again, until finally, eventually… I do it. And I literally jump for joy, wearing a grin two sizes too big for my face.
“I did it!” I squeal, and he’s grinning proudly at me, looking on with a look that’s half fatherly pride, half manly appreciation.
“Good work,” he says, swooping in and kissing me as his arm sweeps around my torso. His tongue pries past my lips as we make out in the middle of the field, until at last we break away, and I peer into his dark eyes.
“How long have you been doing this, Mikhail?” I ask a little breathlessly, my heart thumping inside my chest so hard I swear it’s about to break free.