Since I really did NOT want to go with Special Investigator Clayton Yonder to the Park Department’s shooting range, I protested. But not very vigorously, because even though that darling hunk of Law Enforcement was sufficiently in love with me to appease all of my superficial desires, he listened only to his own counsel when it came to critical decisions. And, our love affair being less than seven months old, he really didn’t know much about my past or my capabilities.

Ergo … I went along with his plan, although I knew that he was in for some surprises.

As the leader of the Avian Slaughter Task Force, Clay had a lot … too much … on his plate. He was a man in a hurry, and he wanted to move things along. I was one of those things. So, he planned our shooting expedition for Tuesday, October 28, the day after our little, itty-bitty swan had her crisis about not being assigned to a combat position in our war against The Terror Bird.

On top of which, minute by minute, Special Investigator Boyfriend was adding more and more to his overall battle plan. Sort of like an absent-minded college professor running amok, who was handing out homework assignments to students who weren’t even in his class.

Initially, these were just affirmations of the orders that Archie the Giant Chickadee gave to our oversize goldfinches and titmouses after he (Archie) put them in charge of all the birds that would be under their command. In case you forgot, that would be: Rochester to the Southland Elementary School, Stella to the Rock Haven Theater, Nigel to the Glencoe Beach, Gwendolyn to the Kings County Zoo, and Archie, among his other responsibilities, to the Pickerel Lagoon.

In order to prepare them for their duties, Clay sent all five – excluding Archie, who was going to train with me – to Park Department Boot Camp. However, since National Park Service personnel only knew how to teach policemen … not warriors … Clay borrowed his old friend, retired Gunny Sergeant Noah Fernandez, from the United States Marine Corps, to serve as their instructor,

According to Special Investigator Boyfriend, my assignment for our upcoming engagement would be to serve with him as a roving trouble-shooter at all five of the Terror Bird encampments. However, until Clay said that we were going to the range, I hadn’t realized that by “trouble-shooter,” he was not speaking metaphorically. By “shooter,” he meant shooting real bullets. At a clawed and feathered foe on a deadly mission of annihilation. And to keep on shooting until said hybrid terrorist was utterly and irrevocably dead.

Me?

How did I suddenly get to be second … oops. I mean third (Archie the Giant Chickadee was the Number Two Man) in command?

But never mind that. At least for now, because you’ll want to know what happened when Clayton Yonder, commander of the Campaign to Eliminate the Terror Bird, Archie the Giant Chickadee, and I met at the firing range of National Park Service Headquarters.

Archie, of course, was not there to learn how to shoot. It was his job to absorb Clay’s stream-of-conscious military musings and, since he knew more about our combatants (his mixed flock) than Clay did, to correct him when he was wrong.

So, the only trainees there that morning to actually train were, ipso facto, me, myself, and I.

Ha. Ha.

Special Investigator Boyfriend led me from the parking lot to the firing range. If you’ve never been to one, it’s just a bunch of side-by-side booths with openings facing the target; they look exactly like they do in every crime movie that you’ve ever seen, whether it’s about a police officer brushing up on his shooting skills, or a vengeful wife doing target practice anticipatory to murdering her husband …

Anyway, as soon as we got there, Clay gave me a set of ear-muffy type things and goggles. He flipped open the cylinder on a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, fed six rounds into the chamber, handed it to me, and explained where my thumb, forefinger, and extraneous digits should go. He plunked a box of ammo on the shelf to my left, arranged the goggles over my eyes, affixed the ear muffs to my ears (or vice versa), and told me not to worry about hitting the target dead center, because doing so took years of practice.

Then he stepped back from the booth, motioned for the range manager to send a target to the back wall (which was sort of like a floppy sheet of paper being extended horizontally on a clothes line), and when the target was in place, said, “Go.”

So, I did.

I shot off five rounds … Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Each sent out a little flash of flame, discharged a loud boom, and emitted the acrid smell of gunpowder. Each shot also hit dead center on the target. Without consulting Clay, I motioned for the range manager to reel in the target, thus affirming that all my shots had hit their mark.

I reloaded the S & W .38 and requested another target. Then, thinking that it would be fun to impress Clay, I asked him if I could borrow his Glock, which he handed over without comment. I turned my attention to the new target, and similarly demolished its bullseye. Then, looking down at the firearm, I said, “I’d reload it for you, but I don’t have any .40 caliber Smith and Wesson bullets.”

Clayton Yonder leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. Then, not the least bit nonplussed, he said, “I don’t suppose, Annie Oakley, that you would care to explain.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind. Unless you would like me first to demonstrate anything else.”

“Oh, I’d love to see what else can you do. Which other weapons did you have in mind?”

Mimicking his position, I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned against the sidewall of my booth, and said, “If I can lift it, I can shoot it.”

“Who taught you to…”

“My father.”

“I didn’t know he was in law enforcement.”

“He isn’t.”

“A veteran?”

“Nope. He owns a tuxedo rental business.”

Clay tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, his entire face asking the next question.

I answered, my smile evaporating at the memory.

“One day when he was 11 years-old, a bunch of rich-boy country club thugs beat him up for being Jewish. That night, my dad swore to himself, ‘Never again.’ Fast forward three decades. I was 12 years-old when he took me to a range for the first time.” I hesitated for a few seconds before I added, “And when I was in high school, he made me join junior ROTC.”

Clay nodding. Approving.

“I want to meet your father someday.”

“You will.”

I landed him back his Glock. He pushed away from the wall, reloaded his weapon, and was holstering it just as, looking this way and that, I suddenly realized that my Giant Chickadee was nowhere in sight.

My eyes widened in horror. With one hand, I grabbed Clay’s .38 Smith & Wesson revolver off the shelf. With the other, I clutched his arm, and exclaimed. “Clay. Where is Archie?”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com