Seattle, Washington
Monday Morning
In a large indoor shooting range, a group of Federal Drug Enforcement Agents honed their skills. Special Agent Angela Rodriguez, a young Hispanic woman in her late twenties, squeezed slowly on the trigger of her .45 caliber revolver, sending another round racing towards its silhouette destination.
After firing several more shots, she returned the weapon to her shoulder holster. Pushing the recall button for the target slide, the black and white silhouette moved quickly towards her. When it stopped in front of her booth, she shook her head in disgust as she examined it. Taking it from the clip, she rolled it up.
Agent Rodriguez picked up her brown tweed sports coat from the hook beside her and put it on. She then grabbed her target and walk off the shooting range and into the sound insulated viewing booth. Though the thick glass separating the two rooms, she could hear the muffled sounds of gun fire as the other agents continued to practice. The young woman pulled her protective ear muffs from her head then untied the ribbon holding her hair back. Her thick black hair fell to her shoulders as she gently shook it out.
Rolling out the target again, she examined it closely. She had actually shot exceptionally well, but not good enough to satisfy her. Angela’s eyes came up from the target. Looking out the large viewing window of the booth, they rested on the shooter closest to her on the range. He was a tall man in his mid-thirties wearing an expensive, impeccably tailored gray Italian suit. His dark hair was pulled tightly back into a small pony tail and a thin well groomed goatee covered his face.
Special Agent Alan Bradley fired rapidly as Angela watched. She would not be satisfied until she could shoot better then he did. Last month she had lost first place in the Agency’s Regional Championship to Bradley. She didn’t like Bradley and it bothered her to feel anyway inferior to someone that she held no respect for.
In almost every way, they were exact opposites. He grew up in the safety of the best neighborhoods. As a child, she fell asleep to the sounds of gun fire and sirens. He was out spoken and wore flashy clothes. She was reserved and conservatively dressed. He had been given everything he desired, while she had worked for what little she had. He stood out in a crowd, while she blended.
To her, Bradley was nothing more than a loud mouth peacock, strutting around trying to get everyone’s attention. She stood there looking at him with his gold Rolex, diamond earring and perfect teeth. Don’t be mistaken, she wasn’t jealous or envious in anyway. In fact, she felt she was superior to him in almost every way. Every way, that is, except shooting.
She was proud of her up bringing and wouldn’t have changed a thing about it because that was what molded her into the person she was today. Born and raised in the worst part of East LA, everyday was a lesson in survival. Her single mother immigrated to the US from Mexico and had to work two jobs to make ends meet. Even with the small amount of time she had to spend with her daughter, she managed to raise her in the strict Roman-Catholic tradition of her ancestors.
Because her mother worked most of the time, Angela was initially raised by the street and the TV. Walking home from school everyday was a lesson in itself. She had to learn quickly which alleys not to go through, when to cross the street to avoid thugs and how to spot trouble before it happened. Of the few friends she had, many of them were getting involved in the destructive influences so prevalent on the street. It was only what her religion had taught her that kept her from getting into too much trouble. That is, until she got arrested.
One night as a young teenager, her best friend picked her up to go cruising in a new car. They hadn’t gone two blocks before they were pulled over by a cop. It was then that she found out the car had been stolen and the two girls were hauled down to the station.
It ended up being a blessing in disguise, however, because the cop had checked up on her and found that she had no criminal background. He talked to the judge and he said the charges would be dropped if she agreed to visit the youth center everyday after school. She didn’t have to volunteer- her mother quickly promised that Angela wouldn’t let them down.
Everyday after that she showed up at the youth center and started to participate in fun activities and make new friends. The policeman who arrested her taught martial arts at the center, and encouraged her to learn. It was hard and challenging, but the rewards were priceless.
At the age of fifteen, five foot three inches tall and ninety-five pounds, she was already fully grown. The daily workouts strengthened her body, toned her muscles and disciplined her mind. Not only did it surprise her, but she was also exhilarated the day she was able to throw her instructor across the room.
This new found feeling of empowerment was intoxicating, and it spilled over into the rest of her day. She realized that she was fairly smart, and started getting better grades in school. Even though she still crossed the street to avoid trouble, she no longer felt weak or afraid. As long as she was disciplined and applied herself, there was nothing she could not accomplish.
Before she graduated from high school, she had her first black belt. With the help of a Naval ROTC scholarship, she continued her education and training at USC. She majored in history, minored in law and competed in martial arts tournaments. By graduation, she’d earned the title of Master of the Do Jo.
In order to pay back the Navy for their financial help in college, Angela entered the force as an officer. Assigned to Naval Intelligence, she developed and honed her investigative skills. The narcotics division, where she was placed, worked to stop Naval personnel from smuggling drugs into the US.
It wasn’t a huge problem because most all of people in the military were respectable professional people. However, the rewards were high enough that a small number of people tried to smuggle cocaine or heroin on a regular basis. Working as mules, they picked up a package while on tour in Asia or South America then delivered it to a dealer when they returned to the United States. Because Navy ships didn’t pass through Customs, the risk of getting caught was small.
Angela found that the lessons she had learned from the streets of LA were now very valuable. The same things that tipped her off to trouble in the old neighborhood were common to drug dealing, no matter where it occurred. If someone suddenly started throwing money around, it was worth looking into. Such as the seaman, who normally makes fifteen thousand a year, that drove a new BMW.
They were called “people of interest”. No full scale investigation was started, they were just watched. Large payoffs could make a person greedy. They took chances and eventually got complacent. When the time was right, Angela would move in with an assault team, arrest everyone involved, and shut down the operation.
She was proud of her work and fiercely determined to do a good job. Personal satisfaction was her main reward. She wore the uniform of the Navy with honor, and it infuriated her that others would disgrace it by smuggling drugs.
Every time one of her arrests turned into a conviction, it made her feel good. She quickly realized that law enforcement was to be her chosen field. When it was time to sign up for another four years with the Navy, she declined. Instead, she accepted a job with the Drug Enforcement Agency and was assigned to the Seattle field office.
Despite the nearly constant rain, she fell in love with the Seattle community. She got an apartment in West Seattle and established a daily routine. Every morning, she would be well into her five mile run around Alki point by dawn, followed by an hour in the weight room. From there, she went to the office. Three nights a week, she taught martial arts at the youth center to inner-city kids.
She liked and respected everyone she worked with. Everyone, that is, except Bradley. She felt that he didn’t fit in. He took too many chances, always rushed into things, and didn’t work well in a team setting. That made him dangerous.
He was very intelligent, she knew, and seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to figuring out how a drug operation worked.
Even so, she considered him to be lazy in his investigative technique and thought he relied too much on instinct.
He seemed only to do just enough to get by. To pass the physical to get into the Agency, Bradley completed only the basic requirements. Just the right number of sit ups, push ups, and such. Seeing him regularly in the gym, he looked like he was in good shape, but she never saw him sweat. He always appeared too busy trying to pick up women.
Investigations done by him were hurried and lacked detail. His reports contained more guess work than actual fact. Mostly, she hated the way he patronized her. All in all, she considered him to be a stain that tarnished the badge they both wore.
The only thing she admired about him was how he shot his gun. Bradley excelled at it. It annoyed her that he didn’t spend countless hours at the range practicing as she did. Not to mention, she felt that he used it too much like a crutch. Almost always, Bradley’s answer to mediocre investigation work was to pull out his gun and start firing.
Angela avoided him whenever she could. So the idea of asking him for help was repulsive, but she was at the end of her rope. Even with all the practice she had put in lately, she hadn’t gotten any better. She needed the advice of an expert. Both her religion and martial arts training had taught her that too much pride was a bad thing. Maybe someone was trying to tell her something or maybe it was a test, but whatever the case, she decided to swallow her pride and ask Bradley for help.
Agent Rodriguez was deep in thought, hardly noticing a younger agent walking through the door from the range. His hair was cut in a high military style crew cut and he wore a loose fitting off-the-rack suit.
“Hello, Agent Rodriguez,” he said, approaching her. “What are you doing?”
“Huh, What?” she replied, shaken from deep concentration. “Oh. Hello, Anderson. I was just studying Agent Bradley’s technique.” They both looked towards the range. “I don’t understand how he does it. I use the slow steady rhythm taught at the Academy when I shoot, but look at him.”
Anderson and Rodriguez watched in silence as Agent Bradley stood with his hands at his sides. Then, like a flash, Bradley reached for the large nickel platted pistol in his shoulder holster. Pulling it quickly he aimed and fired several shots rapidly, then returned it to his holster.
“Who does he think he is, some sort of old west gun slinger?” Anderson laughed.
Rodriguez shook her head. “I don’t know, but it seems to work for him. I was division champ three years in a row until he showed up. I don’t know what irritates me more- the fact that he beat me, or that he makes it look so easy.”
They continued to watch as Agent Bradley put his suit coat back on, pulled the target from the holder, and smiled. Strolling to the door, he entered the preparation room.
“How did you do, Bradley?” Rodriguez asked, as she and Anderson walked over to him.
“Well hello, Angela.” Bradley greeted her with a smile. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you. How did you shoot?” she asked again.
“If you’d like, I could give you some pointers. Over dinner, maybe?” Bradley suggested.
“How many times do I have to tell you? All I’m interested in is your shooting skill.”
“That’s too bad, because I’d like the opportunity to show you how multi-talented I am,” Bradley flashed a cheesy smile.
“No means no,” Rodriguez finished, trying not to sound irritated. Changing the subject, she turned to Anderson. “I don’t believe you two have met. Special Agent Alan Bradley, this is Special Agent Neil Anderson. Anderson is fresh meat from the Academy.” As the two men exchanged handshakes she continued. “We were hoping you’d show us how you scored.”
“Certainly,” he replied, then unrolled his target out on the table next to him. Rodriguez and Anderson looked at the target in amazement. Two groups of four shots, each within a one inch spread, were placed in the center of the silhouette’s chest and head.
“Man! That’s good shooting,” Anderson exclaimed.
“What’s your secret, Bradley? You don’t practice near as much as I do.” Rodriguez crossed her arms. She was clearly frustrated, and it showed.
“It’s not so much practice as it is preparation,” he replied with another smile. “If you put more thought into what you need before you shoot, you won’t have to spend as much time on the range.”
Rodriguez shrugged her shoulders. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, your choice of weapons.” Bradley pointed to her shoulder holster.
Rodriguez pulled her gun from the holster. “I shoot a long barreled .45. It’s the same as many other expert marksman use.”
“Yes it is, but is it the right one for you?” Bradley let the question hang in the air giving her time to consider it.
“I guess so,” she thought out loud. “I’ve got a special grip fitted to my hand, and a national match barrel for increased accuracy.”
Bradley nodded in agreement to her modification, but then continued his analysis of her overall performance. “I’ve watched you shoot. After about five rounds, your wrist starts to sag. It may be too heavy for you.” Again, he gave her a moment to consider his words before continuing. “Besides, it’s a revolver. You need a lot more control because when you pull the trigger you have to turn the whole cylinder.”
Rodriguez thought about it for a moment, and then conceded the point. “Maybe you’re right.”
“What do you shoot?” Anderson was curious as he pointed to the large silver gun in Agent Bradley’s holster.
Bradley pulled out his weapon and handed it over. “.44 Magnum Desert Eagle.”
“Impressive.” Anderson was wide eyed with amazement. He whistled as he examined the huge shiny gun, turning it over and running his hands across it with envy as he did so. “Isn’t the Desert Eagle an Israeli weapon?”
“Yes it is,” Bradley confirmed with a nod. “I had it custom made to my own specifications.”
Rodriguez cocked her head to the side with a question. “What about accuracy? I didn’t think they made a national match barrel for a semiautomatic?”
“You’d be surprised what you can get with the right amount of money.” Bradley smiled as he pointed to his target. “I think the accuracy speaks for itself.”
“What about your speed?” Anderson continued the line of questions. “I’ve got a 9 mm semiautomatic and I can’t pull the trigger nearly as fast as you.”
“The firing mechanism of my Desert Eagle has been modified to fire with a fraction of the squeeze pressure required for stock pistols.”
Anderson understood immediately. “A feather trigger.”
“Exactly.” Bradley gave him a confirming nod.
“But what about lift?” Rodriguez knew that there had to be more to it, and she was determined to find out the answer. “When I fire my .45, the front of the barrel wants to rise. Then it takes time to re-aim and fire again. Your pistol is as powerful as mine, yet your barrel barely moves. Why is that?”
“I’ve had mag-na-ports installed into the slide and barrel.”
“Mag-na-what?” Anderson’s eyebrows lifted. He had no clue what Bradley was talking about.
“Mag-na-ports.” Rodriguez’s eyes went wide with excitement as if a light had just turned on in her head. “They’re small holes which are drilled into the top of the barrel. They allow exhaust gases from the shell to escape when you fire the gun. The force of the gases counter acts the force which causes the barrel to rise.”
“Very good, Angela.” Bradley was clearly surprised at how much she knew. “If you know so much about them why haven’t you done the same thing?”
“I did. I had a hole drilled just behind my front site. It settled the gun movement down nicely, but the hot gases ejected right into my line of sight.” Her tone turned somber and she looked discouraged. “It was distracting, so I stopped using it.”
Bradley understood. Taking his weapon back from Anderson, he pointed at the top of the slide. “That is why I’ve got two elongated holes off set from top center. They not only give me up and down stability, but also reduce some side to side movement without interfering with my vision.”
“Good idea!” Rodriguez was astonished. “I wish I would’ve thought of that.”
Bradley decided that they’d talked enough about weapon configuration. It was time to examine the actual results of their shooting. “Why don’t both of you show me your targets.” Rodriguez and Anderson unrolled their targets and laid them next to Bradley’s. “Now you see, Angela.” He pointed to the target. “This is exactly what I mean. Your first shots are nicely placed. But then you get tired and they move around on you. You should try out some different weapons.”
Bradley then moved to Anderson’s target. “Now yours are a lot sloppier. A few are nice, but then there’s a couple too high and too low. I bet you’re still using off the shelf factory shells, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, what else is there?” Anderson was again confused and the look on his face confirmed it. He had never considered using anything other than the cheap, generic brand he was use to.
“You should use hand loads.” This was a key point, and Bradley wanted to make sure Anderson understood. “The amount of powder used in factory loads varies from shell to shell because they’re loaded by a machine. That causes the bullets with less powder to drop short and the ones with more to fly high. When shells are loaded by hand, the grains of powder can be carefully controlled. They will help you shoot more consistently.”
Bradley pulled the alligator skin wallet from his pocket, and then took a business card from it. “Here, this guy makes them special for me. He even weighs out the bullets so that they’re almost exactly the same. He’ll fix you up.” He handed the card to Anderson.
“Let me see that when you’re through with it, Anderson,” ordered Rodriguez.
Anderson nodded.
“So, it’s not all luck then, is it?” Rodriguez felt relieved that the advice she’d received could significantly help her.
“It all depends on your definition of luck,” Bradley frowned thoughtfully. “To me, luck is when preparation meets opportunity. I believe in being prepared for any situation.”
Anderson turned his attention back to the shiny Desert Eagle. “Nickel plated. With an impressive weapon like that, aren’t you afraid the criminals will see you coming?” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Actually, I count on it. I want them to notice it.” Bradley’s chin seemed to rise a bit and there was no small amount of pride in his voice. “I’ve made many arrests where the suspects have laid down their weapons and given up after they’ve seen it.”
“I’ll bet you spent a fortune on it, though.” Rodriguez shook her head wondering how she could afford such a weapon.
“That’s true, but much do you value your life?” Bradley turned serious for a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“This baby acts as a deterrent to stop suspects that don’t have the balls to face it. For those that do, well, my results speak for themselves.” Bradley looked from Rodriguez to Anderson and back. “They don’t stand a chance.”
“Do you think I could modify my Beretta to do what your Eagle does?” Anderson was now excited about making changes of his own.
“Well, it would help somewhat, but I think you should look into something more powerful.” Bradley tried to discourage Anderson’s suggestion. “The standard issue 9 mm has plenty of killing power, but in my opinion, not enough impact power.”
Anderson did a double take between his companions, looking for an answer. “I don’t get it.”
Bradley started to explain with more detail. “The standard issue 9 mm will kill just about anything you’re aiming at, but it won’t stop a large man charging at you. Rodriguez’s .45 or my .44 Mag will not only kill him, it will knock him backwards. If I carried a Beretta, I wouldn’t be alive today.”
“Why is that?” Rodriguez asked curiously.
Bradley lowered his head somberly. “A few years ago, I was stationed in San Diego. My unit was about to take down a suspected crack house when we were spotted. The suspects were three large Samoan males who locked themselves in the house. Another agent and I were sent around the house in order to go in the back door. As we came through the bushes and got closer, our full attention was on the house.
Suddenly, we were surprised by loud screaming which erupted behind us. We turned quickly to see the three suspects, obviously high on drugs, charging down on us swinging machetes in some sort of suicide run. We immediately lifted our weapons and fired. I took out the first two men, each with a single shot in the center of the chest, at a range of ten feet. The Eagle not only killed them, it knocked them back and off their feet.
The other Agent wasn’t so lucky. He carried a 9 mm and put two bullets into the third suspect’s chest. Even though the man was virtually dead, he had enough adrenaline and momentum to carry him a few more feet.
Before either of us could fire again, the suspect fell forward swinging his machete and fell on top of my partner. The blade practically cut him in two. The Eagle saved my life that day, while the 9 mm buried my partner.” Bradley’s words trailed off and his expression turned distant.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Alan,” Agent Rodriguez consoled him.
A moment later, Bradley lifted the Desert Eagle up for them both to see. “So I’d say this baby was worth the price.”
Rodriguez and Anderson pondered that for a moment as they watched Bradley return his weapon to his shoulder holster.
“Bradley, would you mind if I took the Eagle for a test drive?” Anderson was anxious to try something new.
“Sorry, Anderson,” Bradley shook his head. “Nothing personal, but this is my most prized possession. I wouldn’t let my mother fire it.”
“I thought your corvette was your most prized possession?” Rodriguez joked.
“They both are,” Bradley admitted. “I prize anything that gives me an edge over the competition.”
“Don’t you mean an edge over the criminals?” Anderson corrected him.
“No.” Bradley turned and looked Rodriguez directly in the eye. “I mean the competition.”
Rodriguez’s eyes narrowed as she realized exactly what he meant.
* * * *
Chapter 3
Bears