CHAPTER 6: THE EQUAL BALANCE
“He’s not clearing the brass, Vance. He’s listening to the concrete crack.”
Jesse stepped out from the utility closet before Vance could turn. The notched key was clamped tightly in his palm, its jagged metal teeth biting into his skin. He didn’t look down the narrow corridor toward Lane 4. His focus stayed locked on the range officer’s collar, on the small, silver pin that Vance wore—a 25-year service emblem that was tarnished around the edges, showing the raw yellow brass beneath the plating.
“The county inspectors aren’t coming at the end of the year,” Jesse said, his tone flat, carrying the cold weight of the canvas coat he wore. “They’re already in the parking lot, aren’t they?”
Vance didn’t answer with words. He reached out with a heavy hand, his thumb catching the brim of his cap and pulling it down over his brow. He turned toward the double glass doors that led to the retail counter. Through the grimy, oil-filmed panes, a pair of headlights cut through the blue morning fog, casting long, sharp shadows of the iron grates across the floor wax.
A white Ford F-250 with municipal plates sat idling by the dumpster. The driver didn’t get out. He was waiting for the clock to hit six.
“He’s got twenty minutes before they pull the barrier tape out,” Vance murmured, his voice a low vibration against the concrete blocks. “The regional surveyor has the easement maps from ’89. If Miller can’t produce a registered physical baseline shot from Lane 4 that hits the true section marker behind the wall, the title exception dissolves on the spot. The building gets tagged as an unpermitted hazard.”
“A baseline shot?” Jesse’s fingers tightened around the key. “He can’t see the target frame, Vance. He’s shooting by the click of the gear.”
“Then you better go find his eyes.” Vance stepped aside, his shoulder clearing the path to the firing bays.
The air inside the main range was freezing, the massive intake fans pulling the damp river fog directly into the lanes. The smell of cold grease, burnt powder, and iron filings was so thick it left a gritty coating on Jesse’s tongue.
At the end of Lane 4, Miller stood like a piece of dead timber. He didn’t have his flannel shirt on today; he was in a white undershirt, his thin, corded shoulders shivering slightly against the draft. His left arm was still bound in the blood-crusted canvas wrap, but he wasn’t holding a weapon. He was leaning over the splintered cedar bench, his right hand gripping a heavy, notched steel plumb line. He was dragging the weights along the bottom track of the target carrier, his ear tilted toward the steel rail as if he were listening to the frequency of the metal.
“You’re late, boy,” Miller said without turning. His voice was a thin, raspy needle in the massive, empty room. “The air’s too dense today. The lead’s going to drop two inches before it hits seventy feet.”
“The county truck is outside, Miller,” Jesse said, his boots grinding into a small pile of spent copper casings as he stopped at the partition. He threw the canvas ledger onto the wood bench. The heavy book hit the green masking tape with a dull, hollow thud. “You didn’t look for a competitor. You looked for a surrogate to sign the compliance sheets so your name wouldn’t be on the foreclosure order.”
Miller stopped dragging the plumb line. The steel weight gave a tiny, swinging click against the rail. Slowly, the old man straightened his back, the vertebrae popping like dry twigs under his skin. He turned his face toward Jesse, the milky, frosted irises catching the blue reflection of the fog outside the windows.
“A surrogate would have run the moment they found the aluminum inserts in the drawer,” Miller said, his voice dropping into a cold, transactional rhythm that matched the click of the presses in the back room. “You’re still here because you’ve got the same sickness I had thirty years ago. You think the gear makes you sovereign. You think because your name is on a leaderboard somewhere, the ground beneath your boots belongs to you.”
He reached down, his scarred fingers finding the frame of the heavy, real service revolver resting on the cloth. He didn’t pick it up by the grip; he pushed it toward Jesse, the steel barrel scraping along the rough wood.
“The surveyor’s going to set his transit up in Lane 4,” Miller whispered, his breath pluming white in the chill. “He’s going to look through a glass lens at a survey pin driven into the limestone wall behind the backstop. If that pin has shifted three inches from the structural baseline, the easement is void. But you can’t see the pin through the rubber mulch unless you clear the path with five rounds of hundred-and-fifty-grain solid lead. Exactly through the seam.”
Jesse looked down at the gun. It was cold, dark, and carried the smell of raw kerosene and old wool. “That’s a structural assessment. It’s illegal to fire into the foundation walls while an inspector is on the property.”
“Everything in this county is illegal if you don’t have the hand to hold it,” Miller hissed, his blind gaze drilling right through Jesse’s face. “The surveyor knows the law. He’s waiting for me to fail the sequence. He thinks an old man with dead eyes can’t hit a two-inch iron bolt hidden behind eighty feet of dark rubber.”
The glass doors at the front counter gave a sharp, echoing rattle. The first heavy footsteps of the municipal inspector began to crunch across the retail area, the sound of clipboard clips snapping shut carrying through the open hallway.
Jesse reached out, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers closed around the cold, heavy iron of the revolver’s grip. The balance was terrifyingly front-heavy compared to his match pistol, the steel biting into the raw skin of his palm where the key had left its mark.
“I’m not doing it for your name, Miller,” Jesse said, his voice sharpening into a thin blade of resolve as he stepped into the center of Lane 4 and brought the iron sights up into the grey fog.
Miller let out a short, wet chuckle that died instantly as the first shadow hit the back of the bay corridor. “You’re doing it because if the roof comes down, kid, your fancy jerseys won’t keep the rain off your head.”
