Free The Barbed-Wire Kiss by Wallace Stroby

had some rough times. A lot of things that probably seem like they all came down at once. And maybe you’re a little bit scared. But you need to get out there again, Harry. You need to reconnect. Reengage.”
    “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”
    He stood up.
    “I appreciate your calling me,” he said. “If nothing else, I have a better idea who I’m dealing with.”
    “Still sticking to the five P’s, eh? ‘Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance.’ That was your mantra in the old days.”
    “Yeah, I guess it was.”
    “I hope it still is, partner. Watch yourself.”
    As soon as he pulled into the lot of the shooting range, he could hear the unmistakable popping of a handgun.
    He parked beside Bobby’s pickup, got out. Aside from another, newer pickup, the lot was empty. It was an outdoor range, with a shack for an office and a covered wooden platform that looked out on a long stretch of bare ground. At the end of the range were bulldozed mounds of dirt high enough to catch stray bullets. Beyond them were woods. He walked toward the sound of the shots.
    Bobby had the firing platform to himself. He stood at a table behind the railing, the Glock in a two-handed grip, squeezing off shots, taking his time. Brass clattered onto the walkway and the smell of cordite was sharp in the air.
    He fired twice more and the slide locked back empty. He ejected the clip, set the gun on the table.
    “What’s that come out to?” Harry said as he stepped up onto the platform. “About fifty cents a bullet?”
    Bobby looked at him. “More like seventy-five. I’m just finishing up. How’d you find me?”
    “I called the boatyard and they told me you’d left early.”
    On the table was another full clip, a leather handgun case, and a plastic spackle container, the bottom of which was already lined with spent shell casings.
    “I had some comp time coming. I wanted a chance to get away, think for a little while.”
    He took the full magazine, slid it into the grip until it seated. He thumbed off the slide lock, and the mechanism slid forward and chambered a round. He held the gun out, butt first.
    “No, thanks,” Harry said.
    Bobby stepped up to the railing, the gun in his right hand. He braced his wrist with his left hand, aimed at the man-sized paper target mounted on a pole about twenty-five yards away. Harry stepped back as he began to fire. The gun jumped in his hand, the crack loud and flat in the air. A casing flew between them.
    Harry couldn’t see where the shot had gone. Bobby steadied off, closed one eye, and squeezed again. This time the bullet nicked the top right edge of the target.
    “It pulls high and to the right a little,” Bobby said. “Like I said, it’s light, so it kicks.”
    He fired three more times in quick succession, the bullets marching across the target from right to left. Gray smoke drifted around him. He paused again, adjusting his aim, and then began to fire steadily at one-second intervals, the gun rising in his hand, the sound of the shots echoing back at them from the wall of dirt. Star-shaped holes ran in a diagonal pattern across the center of the target.
    “Not bad,” Harry said.
    He counted seven shots before the slide locked back. Bobby ejected the clip, cleared the breech, set the gun on the table.
    “I had a little luck today,” he said.
    “How’s that?”
    Bobby put the gun in the case, the two empty clips in an inner side pouch.
    “Guy I know, I did some work on his boat on the side. He’s owed me money since January. I called him yesterday and he managed to come across with some of it today. Fifteen hundred.”
    “That’s good.”
    Bobby knelt and began to pick up shell casings from the walkway. He dropped them clinking into the bucket.
    “And I went to the bank this morning too, cashed in a CD. Took a hit on it, but that’s another two thousand. So I’ve got thirty-five hundred I can give him right away.”
    “That’s a start. I’ll make the call,