Both men set their black boxes at their positions on the firing tables, lifted the lids, and focused their scopes down range. Eric wanted Rake to make the next move. He didn’t have to wait long.
“What do you do in Richmond?” Rake asked.
“I’m working on a new gun concept half the time and shooting in matches the other half.”
“Sounds like a rough life.” Rake pulled out a box of ammunition. “This gun concept—yours or someone else’s?”
“Mine.” Reaching into his box, Eric wiped his hands on one of Fran Watson’s worn kitchen towels-turned oil rag.
“What exactly is it?”
“A new concept in propulsion.” Eric pulled out his gun tray and boxes of ammunition.
“Tom,” Rake turned and yelled at the referee, “are we going to get sighters before this match?” When a nod came from the other side of the range, he responded, “Damn, I’m glad about that. I’m not sighted in for this range,” he confessed to Eric. Using a small screwdriver, he turned a screw on top of his .22 until it clicked a few times. “Tell me more about it. You going to be the new Sam Colt?”
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish