Gun site Academy was located in the high desert of Arizona.
Its founder, Colonel Jeff Cooper, was widely regarded as one of the fathers of modern defensive handgun training.
He helped formalize the Four Rules of Gun Safety and promoted practical techniques such as the two-handed Weaver stance and the Mozambique drill.
Nick’s department-funded course was scheduled to begin one month later.
Until then, he had nothing to do except wait for the training division to finalize the paperwork and send him the airline tickets.
The thought of saving several thousand dollars put him in an excellent mood.
That weekend, he dragged Hank Griffin to Northwest Armory, one of the largest gun stores and indoor shooting ranges in the Portland area.
The business maintained close ties with local law enforcement, making it a popular destination for officers purchasing personal equipment or completing extra range practice.
Nick personally preferred another Portland shop known as the Gun Room.
The Gun Room was one of Oregon’s older firearms businesses.
Its worn wooden counters, aging display cases, and old-fashioned atmosphere made it feel more like a private museum than a modern retail store.
Antique revolvers, classic military rifles, and expensive collector-grade firearms filled its racks.
Nick could spend hours looking through the inventory, but admiration did not make those weapons affordable.
Until the Bitcoin in his investment account became worth something, he had no intention of making an expensive purchase there.
Today, he wanted a practical handgun.
More specifically, he wanted a pistol he could trust during another life-or-death encounter.
His Glock 22 had not truly failed because of a mechanical defect.
Nick’s awkward fall and poor wrist support had prevented the lightweight pistol from cycling correctly.
Still, the experience had left him uncomfortable with relying entirely on the department-issued weapon.
There was a reason some veteran officers continued referring to polymer-framed pistols as plastic guns.
Glocks were durable, affordable, and simple to maintain.
Their reputation as the handgun equivalent of an AK-pattern rifle was not undeserved.
However, the combination of the Glock 22’s light frame and the sharp recoil of the .40 S&W cartridge made rapid fire more difficult to control.
The problem was less noticeable with a full-size Glock 17 chambered in 9mm.
With the Glock 22, muzzle rise became increasingly obvious during fast strings of fire.
Its Safe Action trigger also felt unusually vague to Nick.
The travel was longer than he preferred, and the break reminded him of pressing through a flexible wall.
He could use it effectively, but he had never enjoyed it.
After listening to Nick’s complaints, the salesman nodded with understanding and reached beneath the glass counter.
“I might have something you’ll like.” He placed a large black case in front of Nick and opened it.
Inside rested a SIG Sauer P226 configured for tactical use.
“This is a P226 package in nine millimeter,” the salesman explained.
“It has SIGLITE night sights, a stainless-steel slide with a protective finish, an accessory rail, and upgraded grips.” Several extended magazines occupied the cutouts beside the pistol.
“You can mount a weapon light or laser on the rail.
The grip panels are more aggressive than the standard factory set, so they stay secure even when your hands are wet.” Nick barely listened to the sales pitch.
He already knew the P226 well.
The full-size metal-framed pistol had earned a strong reputation with military units, federal agencies, and police departments around the world.
Its weight helped absorb recoil, while the double-action and single-action trigger system offered a more defined break than the Glock.
What caught his attention first was the row of extended magazines.
“Those hold twenty rounds?” The salesman smiled.
“Twenty each.” With one round already chambered, Nick would have twenty-one rounds available before needing to reload.
That was an impressive amount of ammunition for a full-size service pistol.
The salesman seemed to mistake his surprise for concern.
“I know the .40 is still popular with law enforcement, but departments are already reconsidering the nine millimeter,” he said.
“Modern defensive ammunition has improved considerably.” He lifted one of the magazines from the case.
“Two accurate nine-millimeter hits are more useful than one missed shot from a heavier caliber.” Nick could not argue with that reasoning.
The .40 S&W had dominated American law enforcement for years, largely because of its association with the FBI.
Yet recoil, magazine capacity, ammunition cost, and improvements in bullet design were gradually pushing departments back toward 9mm.
Before long, the Glock 17 and compact Glock 19 would become common choices across the country.
Nick carried the P226 into the indoor range and tested it with several boxes of ammunition.
The first magazine told him almost everything he needed to know.
The metal frame settled naturally into his hands.
Recoil came straight back instead of sharply flipping the muzzle upward, and the sights returned to the target almost immediately.
His groups tightened as he increased his firing speed.
The double-action first shot required more pressure, but every shot afterward used the lighter single-action trigger.
Once Nick adjusted to the transition, the pistol felt far more precise than his Glock 22.
An hour later, he left Northwest Armory carrying the locked SIG case.
The smell of burnt powder still clung to his clothes.
Hank followed him toward the aging Mercury Grand Marquis with a dissatisfied expression.
“You actually spent eleven hundred dollars on a handgun.” Nick shifted the case beneath his arm.
“That includes the magazines.” “You could have bought another Glock for almost half that.” “I already own a Glock.” Hank shook his head.
“That shooting scared poor little Nicky more than he wants to admit.” Eleven hundred dollars was a considerable amount of money in 2008.
A standard Glock 22 cost only a little over half that price, yet Nick considered the SIG worth every dollar.
Captain Renard had already saved him between three and four thousand dollars by having the department fund his Gunsite training.
Spending part of that amount on equipment that could preserve his life seemed entirely reasonable.
The salesman had also recognized Nick from the news coverage of the Coffey shooting.
After confirming his police identification, the store gave him a law-enforcement discount and included a box of 9mm ammunition.
The in-house gunsmith adjusted the controls to Nick’s preference, reducing unnecessary trigger travel and smoothing the pull without making the pistol unsafe for duty use.
“I don’t spend my entire paycheck in bars,” Nick said.
“Unlike certain people.” Hank unlocked the Mercury.
“I have a social life.” “You have a bar tab.” “It builds credit.” “Luckily, none of your ex-wives had children with you.
Otherwise, you’d be eating at my house every night instead of only showing up on weekends.” The bell above the door of a nearby sidewalk café interrupted Hank’s reply.
Both men turned.
An elegant blonde woman emerged from the café with another woman beside her.
She wore a perfectly fitted business suit and carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to expensive surroundings.
The two women descended the steps while laughing over a private conversation.
Hank stopped walking.
His gaze followed the blonde without the slightest attempt at subtlety.
“As a detective,” he said, “give me your professional assessment.” Nick studied her for a moment.
“Armani suit.
BMW key in her hand.
The briefcase is real leather and probably costs more than your monthly rent.” “That sounds promising.” “She’s either a partner at a major law firm or a senior corporate executive.
I’d estimate her annual income at no less than two hundred thousand.” Hank’s smile widened.
Nick immediately crushed his enthusiasm.
“She’s intelligent, wealthy, and probably accustomed to men with better judgment than you.
Leave her alone.” “I’ve dated lawyers before.” “You married one.
That isn’t the same as successfully dating her.” Hank muttered something under his breath and walked around the front of the Mercury to reach the driver’s door.
Nick remained leaning against the passenger side, his attention still on the blonde woman.
Her appearance was not exactly his preferred type, but her presence made up for it.
Every movement carried practiced elegance and an effortless sensuality that drew the eyes of nearly every man on the sidewalk.
As though sensing his attention, she looked toward him.
Their eyes met.
A hint of appreciation appeared in her smile.
Then her expression froze.
The woman’s face rippled.
Her smooth skin darkened and shriveled as if decades of decay had struck her in a single heartbeat.
The flesh around her cheeks collapsed, her mouth twisted, and rotting teeth appeared behind blackened lips.
For an instant, the sophisticated businesswoman looked like a corpse brought back by witchcraft.
Nick recoiled and instinctively reached toward his waistband.
His new P226 remained secured inside its locked case, while his department Glock was not currently on his hip.
The realization came a fraction of a second after his hand moved.
The hideous face vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.
The blonde woman stood on the sidewalk again, perfectly human.
Her earlier smile was gone.
Fear flashed through her eyes as she lowered her head and hurried away with her confused companion.
Nick stared after her.
“Did you see that?” Hank opened the driver’s door and looked across the roof of the car.
“See what?” “Her face.” Hank glanced toward the departing women.
“Looks like Mr.
July finally met a woman who wasn’t interested.” “That isn’t what happened.” “It looked pretty clear from here.” Nick struggled to describe what he had witnessed.
Should he say that the woman had transformed into the rotting witch from a children’s fairy tale?
Her features had also resembled the decayed faces of the undead from the zombie films that had become increasingly popular.
Neither explanation sounded sane.
“Her face changed,” Nick said carefully.
“For a second, she looked like—” “Like someone who remembered she had standards?” Nick ignored him.
Joshua Coffey’s transformation had not been an isolated incident.
There were others.
They lived normal lives, drove expensive cars, worked professional jobs, and walked through crowded streets without attracting attention.
Somehow, Nick could see what they were hiding while everyone around him remained blind.
He looked toward the corner where the blonde had disappeared.
Whatever had awakened inside him during the Coffey shooting was growing stronger.
And the creatures of Portland had already begun noticing him.
[Goal Tracker]