BANG.
The bullet tore past the dummy's shoulder and smacked into the wall behind it.
Carl cursed under his breath and lowered the gun. His hands shook as he reloaded, fingers clumsy, movements too slow.
Hale stood beside him with his arms folded, posture straight, face carved from stone.
"Back straight," Hale said. "You're leaning too much. Plant your feet. Shoulder-width."
Carl adjusted.
"Elbows locked. Don't overcorrect. Let the recoil settle."
Carl nodded and raised the gun again.
BANG.
BANG.
Both shots missed.
The paper dummy swung slightly from the air displacement, untouched.
Carl lowered the gun with a long, frustrated sigh. "Maybe guns aren't for me, Hale."
Hale frowned but didn't answer right away.
"I'm not a marksman like Aubrey. Or Adrian," Carl continued. "Hell, even Terri's getting better than me."
He rubbed sweat from his eyebrow with the back of his wrist.
"Maybe I should just take lessons from Cherie. Melee weapons. Up close. Less… embarrassing."
