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CHAPTER 4

USING REAL LOADS in a quick-draw contest feels reckless. From the moment he says “real bullets,” I have a bad feeling, like the careful plans for audience safety are being abandoned for something a group of drunken frat boys would do around a campfire on a Saturday night.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say, “but I’ve got to hit the road. I’m happy to concede victory to Ryan.”

“Hell, no,” Ryan says. “If I’m going to win this thing, I’m going to win it fair and square.”

“It won’t take long,” the organizer says. As if reading my mind about my real concerns, he adds, “We’ll make sure to do it safe.”

Someone suggests that famous quick-draw artist Bob Munden used to slice playing cards in half with his shots. So our targets would be the flat edge of the cards, hardly bigger than a sewing needle.

“We can set up some kind of contraption to hold the card up in front of the target with the impact sensor,” the organizer says. “To win you’ve got to cut the card and have the best time.”

“It’ll destroy the sensor,” someone says, but the others seem to think the damage will be worth it for the spectacle.

I tell them that my concern isn’t the target or the impact sensor but whatever’s on the other side of the wooden fence. The bullets are going to fly right through.

“There’s eight feet of rubber tires over there,” the organizer assures me.

“Well, does anyone have any playing cards?” Ryan asks.

The men look around at each other in comical confusion.

Ryan and I can’t help but laugh, but behind us, the crowd is restless.

Ryan says, “How about we do what ol’ Jelly Bryce used to do?”

Jacob Adolphus Bryce—known as “Jelly”—was a famous FBI agent in the 1930s, ’40s, and ’50s, who many people believe was the fastest gunman ever to live. In several shoot-outs, he shot men who already had their guns aimed at him—drawing and firing faster than they could squeeze the trigger. But he also did a lot of contests and performances, showing off his shooting skills for audiences.

I’ve always thought that Ryan fancies himself a sort of modern-day Jelly Bryce. He does plenty of the performance shooting, but—so far—he lacks the real-world reputation Bryce also had.

Ryan explains that Jelly Bryce used to hold a quarter at shoulder height, with his arm extended, while his other hand rested on his gun. When he dropped the quarter, he could draw and shoot it as it passed his waist. Back in the 1940s, Life magazine did a photo spread with some kind of state-of-the-art camera showing Bryce’s skill in freeze-frame steps.

“Let Rory and me try it,” he says, digging into his pocket and pulling out two quarters.

The organizers like the idea, and as much as I don’t, I go along with it. I don’t want to disappoint the organizers or the crowd. And—to my own surprise—I find that I want badly to win.

I reach into my duffel bag and pull out my hip holster for the SIG Sauer. If we’re using real bullets, I’m using my pistol of choice. I see Ryan doing the same, loading live rounds into the Glock he carries on the job. The announcer explains to the restless crowd what the tiebreaker will entail.

There are a good fifty people, half of them law enforcement personnel, crowded around the shooting area in a crescent moon. As the organizer backs them away, I spot Ava Cruz, winner of the archery competition.

The other half of the spectators are civilians. I figure they contributed good money to the fundraising event, and I ought to at least give them a good show. I spot a young woman carrying a toddler in her arms—the boy has straw-colored hair and is wearing noise-canceling headphones—and I tip my hat to her and give her a smile. She beams back at me, doing her best to keep the restless child from squirming out of her grip.

Ryan volunteers to go first and steps into position.

“Shooter on the line,” the announcer says, and when Ryan’s ready, he adds, “Shooter set.”

In a flash, Ryan drops his coin and draws his gun. The crack of the shot is so much louder than the wax loads we used before.

He reaches down and picks up his quarter.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I missed it completely.”

The crowd groans with disappointment, and the announcer explains that it’s my turn and if I hit the quarter, I’ll win the contest. Ryan hands me the quarter and wishes me good luck, winking to say that he really hopes I miss.

I face the fence in front of the barricade of rubber tires. I hold the quarter out at shoulder height and place my other hand on the grip of my SIG Sauer, which feels much more familiar to me than the handle of the Vaquero.

This is my gun.

I try to tune everything else out, focused only on the task at hand. Like before, with my incredible 0.284 shot, I am in an almost meditative state. Nothing exists but me and the shot I need to make.

I let go of the quarter.

My hand yanks the pistol.

Somewhere in front of me, I spot a slight blur of movement—a fistful of straw.

My brain registers that it’s the child who was squirming in his mother’s arms. He’s wriggled free and darted into my shooting lane.

But my reflexes are on automatic pilot.

The gun is already in my hand, swinging up.

My finger is inside the trigger guard, squeezing.