SINCE HE HAD NO ONE he cared to have Thanksgiving dinner with, he’d packed up the gray sedan he’d rented and left early – he’d found a place to practice that was open despite the holiday.
When he arrived at the outdoor range sixty-two miles northwest of San Angelo, he signed the safety and acknowledgement forms as Grant Forrester – it’s only right, since it’s his g*n, he thought wryly. He then proceeded with the Winchester to the long-range area to hang his target at the seventy-five-yard mark. As he was the range’s sole user, he opted to take his time laying out the rifle and his ammunition. He sized up the initial distance he’d chosen as he put on his earmuffs and safety glasses.
He methodically shoved fourteen .44 caliber rounds into the side loading port and cycled the lever action t
