Critical Threat by Nick Oldham Read Free Book Online

goggles secure, feet shoulder width apart, the heavy weapon held in his right hand, left hand clamped underneath it for support, the muzzle pointing downwards to a point about three feet in front of him. Six bullets had been loaded. The tip of his right forefinger rested on the trigger.
    He was suddenly extremely nervous. His mouth had dried up, his legs gone slightly weak with excitement. He had given up breathing.
    Bill, positioned a pace behind Henry, placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘Be ready for the recoil,’ he warned. Henry nodded, focused on what lay ahead. ‘Are you ready to shoot?’
    â€˜Yes.’ He was a hundred per cent aware of how his body was feeling.
    In his hand Bill held the remote control, no larger than a TV remote, which controlled everything in the range from the movement of the targets to the lighting, to background music if necessary.
    There was an interminable pause – probably no more than two seconds although it seemed for ever – giving Henry the chance to scan the range ahead and take in the obstacles.
    Bill pressed a button on the remote and all four targets spun out of sight.
    Henry swallowed nothing.
    â€˜As discussed?’ Bill asked – because as against procedure as this little foray might have been, he had gone through a thorough, rigorous pre-shoot safety briefing with Henry.
    â€˜Yes.’
    Another pause, then, ‘Watch and shoot.’
    Bill patted Henry on the back and he started to walk slowly forwards, revolver still pointing towards the floor.
    Three metres down, one of the targets spun to face him.
    Henry reacted. He stopped, adopted the classic combat stance, bouncing down on his knees, bringing up the gun at the same time and double-tapped – bam! bam! The gun recoiled wildly as the powerful bullets exploded out of the muzzle. The noise in the confined space, in spite of the earmuffs, was incredible.
    The target spun away, having shown for two seconds.
    Henry knew he had missed at this distance.
    A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He lowered the gun, gritted his teeth and walked on, two rounds discharged, ensuring he remembered how many he had fired. It was easy to forget in the heat of the moment.
    Two different targets spun to face him. Henry took them in and was surprised to see that one of them was a woman holding a baby; the other was the gunman. He dropped into the combat stance and double-tapped the correct target, again knowing he had missed.
    Four gone, two left.
    The targets clattered out of sight.
    Henry walked another two metres and a single target appeared, into which he drilled his remaining bullets, now having got some measure of the recoil of the huge gun. Before the target disappeared, Henry dropped to one knee behind one of the walls and transferred the gun into his left hand, whilst at the same time flicking open the cylinder and ejecting the spent cartridges on to the floor behind him with an exaggerated flick of his hand. He fumbled in his pocket and found the speedloader, slotting the bullets into their new homes, then stood up, ready again – just as two targets reappeared, both wielding firearms.
    He reacted instantly, a double-tap for each of them, and was feeling pretty good at the result.
    Four bullets gone, two remaining … he walked on, heart pulsating, sweat dripping, adrenaline gushing … ready to shoot again.
    â€˜And I am a transsexual,’ the person at the front of the classroom announced proudly, bringing an inner groan from Henry, who began to wonder how much more of this he could stand as his eyes flickered to the transvestite sitting next to the transsexual. It was becoming a freak show and he could sense a creeping feeling of despair in the room from all the other delegates. And there was another session to go after this.
    He could still feel the kick-back of the big revolver in his hands, smell the cordite in his nostrils, and half-wished he had the Magnum in his