This time Medina braced her wrists with his own hands, but this time she was more prepared for the recoil. She didn't fight it, but let her forearms absorb the shock.
"Good," Medina said, and let his arms drop from around her.
Taking her time, not rushing her shots, she emptied the clip at the target. When the clip was empty, per Medina's previous instructions, she removed the empty dip and slapped a new one in. While she was doing that he called up a new target and set this one at twenty yards. She shot all the bullets in that clip, too.
Afterward he pulled the targets up for examination. On the first target, out of a fifteen-shot clip, she had scored two rounds in the head, one in the neck, and five in the chest. "Only eight," she said in disgust. "Barely over fifty percent."
"This isn't a marksmanship competition, so don't try to be Annie Oakley. And look at it this way: With the other seven bullets, you probably scared the hell out of whoever was standing beside the target."
She had to laugh, even if it was ruefully. "Thanks a lot."
"You're welcome. Take a look at the second target."
The second target made her feel better. With both targets she had tried to divide her shots equally between the head and chest. It hadn't worked very well with the first target, and in one way she didn't approve much: only three shots went into the head. But eight shots were clustered in the chest area, meaning she had made all of those shots.
She told John what she'd been trying to do. "Forget the head," he advised. "In a tense situation, the chest is a much bigger target. You don't have to kill someone, just stop him. Now let's switch to another weapon."
"Why?"
"Because you never know what will be available. You need to be able to use whatever is at hand."
He made it sound like she was going to make a career of this, she thought grumpily. But she moved to the H&K as instructed and went through the same exercise. She ran into trouble with both the Colt and Smith & Wesson, though. The pistols were so heavy it took all her strength, using both hands, to hold her wrists steady. The first shot with the .357 jarred her teeth.
Medina stepped behind her then, wrapping his hands around her wrists and adding his strength to hers. "Unless you're with me, I'm not going to be much good with these," she said between gritted teeth.
"You're doing okay. Just take your time between shots."
She not only had to take her time, she had to work up her nerve. Now she knew why the big pistols were called hand cannons. She didn't make all her shots with them, either, but the ones that hit tore impressive holes in the cardboard targets. Afterward she had to massage her forearms to relax the muscles.
"That's enough for today," he said, taking note of her action, ""four arms will be sore if you keep on."
"Stopping suits me fine," she muttered. "I guess I'm not Rambo, either."
"Who is?" he asked dryly.
She laughed as she worked the kinks out of her shoulders. "What's next?"
"A workout, if you're up to it."
She gave him a wary look. "What kind of workout?"
"The kind where I teach you how to take care of yourself."
"I'll have you know I already take vitamins and moisturize my skin."
"Smart ass." He chuckled as he looped a companionable arm around her shoulders. "We're going to make a great team."
"A great temporary team," she corrected, ignoring the sudden thumping of her heart. No way was she going back into this full-time, or even part-time. This was a one-shot deal.
He let her have the last word, but she saw the self-satisfied quirk to his mouth, quickly smoothed out, that told her he planned otherwise. And that was almost as worrying as the job itself.
To her relief, he took it easy on her during the workout. The gym he took her to wasn't a gym at all, but an abandoned barn thirty miles south of D.C. Nevertheless, it was equipped with both weight machines and free weights, punching bags, what looked like gymnastic equipment, and a big, blue, three-inch thick foam mat.
"That isn't thick enough," she pronounced.
"It's thick enough. I'm not going to be dropping you on your head." He kicked off his shoes.
"It's my butt I'm worried about." Following his example, she took off her own shoes.
"I promise I'll take good care of your butt."
He was as good as his word. The workout didn't involve getting tossed around or twisted into a pretzel. "Rule one: Don't try to take anyone down," he said. "You aren't good enough. The best you can hope to do is get away, so that's what we'll concentrate on. You have the advantage of surprise on your side, because you're small-"
"I am not."
He cast his eyes toward the cavernous ceiling. "You're smaller than most men," he amended.
"But I'm wiry."
He laughed then. "Okay, you're wiry. Where, I don't know, but I'll take your word for it. But you look-"
This time she was the one who rolled her eyes. "I know, like an angel."
"You don't like that, huh? Then let's say you look like a lady. You look as if you've never been dirty, never sweated, never swore."
"Strike three, you're out," she muttered.
"And you don't look nearly as contrary as you are."
"I'm not contrary, I'm accurate."
"As I was saying..." He grinned down at her. "You look like a cream puff. An angelic, ladylike cream puff. So any guy who grabs you isn't going to be expecting you to do anything except maybe cry."
Deciding she'd bedeviled him enough for now, she shrugged her shoulders back and forth, loosening them. "Okay, so teach me how to make him cry."