CHAPTER 3: THE DECOY IN THE DRAWER
The copper skin of the discarded box felt rough, almost abrasive under Jesse’s thumb. His red dot optic remained hovering over the target, but the fire had left his posture. The young shooter deliberately let his breath out through his teeth, slowly dropping his pistol to a low-ready position.
“Lane four clear,” Jesse announced, his voice carrying a forced indifference. He turned his torso outward, sliding his weapon back into its fitted kydex holster with a sharp, synthetic snap. “Optic’s drifting. Light’s bad in here today, Vance. I’m going to run a diagnostic on the bench behind the glass.”
Miller didn’t turn to watch him leave. The old man stood like a post, his right hand still locked onto the grip of the heavy revolver, his left sleeve obscuring the dark stain spreading through the flannel weave. He simply pulled his gaze back to the pristine white target eighty feet away, his chin lifted as if he could see right through the solid paper.
Jesse stepped out of the firing bay, his rubber-soled sneakers crunching softly against the layer of unburnt powder and brass shavings that littered the concrete floor. The air changed the moment he pulled open the heavy steel door to the back corridor—the concussive pressure of the range dying into a dead, airless silence that smelled of floor wax and rusted machinery. He didn’t go toward the front counter where the customers rented ear protection. Instead, he slipped down the narrow side hallway toward the rear maintenance room, his eyes scanning the grime-filmed windows for Vance’s shadow.
The door to the workshop was heavy, solid-core pine with a brass doorknob that had been rubbed down to the raw, zinc pink by decades of oily palms. Jesse squeezed the handle, applying pressure until the latch clicked without a sound. He stepped inside, letting the door rest against its frame without locking it behind him.
The room was a desaturated maze of iron and oak. A massive steel workbench ran the length of the back wall, its surface scarred by thousands of chisel strokes, hammer blows, and chemical spills. Dozens of old reloading presses stood like rusted sentinels along the shelf space, their levers coated in a fine patina of dry orange rust. Jesse moved with a predator’s economy, his eyes searching the shadows under the low-hanging fluorescent fixture.
He knew what he was looking for. On the third shelf beneath the main vise sat Miller’s personal armor drawer—a heavy, scarred metal locker secured by an old brass Master padlock. Jesse approached the locker, his hand reaching out to touch the cold, flaky surface of the iron latch. It didn’t budge.
He checked his pocket, his fingers brushing against the empty casing he had slipped off Miller’s bench before walking away. He pulled the hollow brass tube into the dim light. Inside the mouth of the crimped cartridge, something metallic glinted. Jesse turned the casing upside down, tapping it against his palm. A small, notched key with a rusted head dropped into his hand. It was caked in dried grease.
He inserted the key into the padlock. The cylinder turned with a dry, grinding scream that made Jesse freeze, his ears straining for the sound of boots in the hallway. Nothing came. He slid the shackle free and pulled the heavy locker door open.
Inside lay three identical blued-steel revolvers, each resting on a separate strip of faded green felt. Jesse reached for the middle one—the identical twin to the weapon Miller was currently holding in Lane 4. The moment his fingers closed around the checked wooden grip, he felt the discrepancy. The gun was too light. The balance was entirely wrong.
Jesse pointed the muzzle toward the floor and pulled the cylinder release latch. The cylinder swung out with a stiff, ungreased rattle. He tilted the frame back, expecting the heavy copper bases of service ammunition to slide out into his palm. Instead, six strange, custom-milled aluminum inserts dropped out.
He picked one up, rolling the metal between his forefinger and thumb. The center of the primer pocket had been drilled through and tapped with a small steel pin that permanently blocked the firing pin from striking a real primer. The cylinder chambers themselves were bridged with solid steel sleeves, bored out only deep enough to accept short, necked cartridges that carried nothing but a pinch of black powder and an iron-flake wad to produce smoke. The weapon was a dead shell. It was mechanically incapable of throwing lead.
“You’re looking at the wrong tool, kid.”
The voice didn’t come from the doorway. It came from the dark corner of the room behind the parts washer.
Jesse spun, his hand instinctively dropping toward his holster, his fingers wrapping around the modern polymer grip. His heart thudded hard against his ribs as his eyes adjusted to the shadow.
Miller was sitting on an upturned grease bucket, his flannel sleeves rolled up to reveal the heavy white canvas binding around his forearm. The fabric was thoroughly soaked now, the dark iron-scented fluid dripping steadily onto a pile of oily shop rags between his boots. He hadn’t followed Jesse down the hall; he had been waiting in the dark the entire time.
In his right hand, the old man held a small, black bottle of fluid—not gun oil, but a medical dropper with a stark white prescription label. His eyes were wide, fixed on the middle distance, the pupils completely dilated and unfocused under the weak light of the workshop.
“You think you found the trick, don’t you?” Miller whispered, his voice dry as parched soil. He didn’t lift the dropper. He just sat there in the desaturated gray, his old frame looking smaller, more fragile than it ever had on the firing line. “You think you figured out why the paper didn’t tear.”
Jesse didn’t let go of his grip. His eyes moved from the disabled revolver in his left hand to the white binding on Miller’s arm. “You’re running a scam, old man. You’re standing out there lecturing people on discipline while you’re shooting blanks from a plugged pipe.”
Miller let out a short, dry cough that sounded like a shovel striking gravel. “A scam,” he repeated, his sightless gaze drifting somewhere over Jesse’s left shoulder. “That’s what your generation calls it when the tool has to change because the hand can’t hold the weight anymore.”
He reached out, his thick, scarred fingers fumbling against the edge of the workbench until they brushed against a heavy iron cleaning rod. He didn’t pick it up; he just held onto it like a man trying to anchor himself to a floor that was tilting beneath his feet.
“The boy thinks he knows the truth,” Miller muttered into the cold air of the room, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, dangerous whisper. “But you haven’t even looked at the wall yet.”
Before Jesse could answer, the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor gave a sharp, definitive slam. The heavy thud of Vance’s service boots began to echo down the concrete hall, moving directly toward the workshop.
