Elena’s Tale – a morning at the gun club

Audio version: Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...

An American Landscape Short Story

Livermore Pleasanton Rod & Gun Club

One Sunday morning

On her first day off in several months, she pulled through the large parking lot, parked her gleaming white BMW 640i, and retrieved her shotgun and gear from the vehicle’s trunk.

Her father gave her that shotgun when she had graduated from college. Her grandfather bought her the sports car when she joined the CIA. Both men were dead now.

Shooting vest loaded with shells and with the 12-gauge Perazzi HT 2020 open and cradled over one shoulder, she headed toward the trap range office to find her squad and the day’s schedule.

That’s when she heard the drone.

She paused and tilted her head. From the sound and her experienced ear, she knew the craft’s model and its capabilities. The flying machine, larger than a trashcan lid and matte black, crept across the dewy valley toward her.

“Hey, girl,” Earl said from nearby, where he and mutual friend Bill leaned over Earl’s pickup bed, shooting the morning breeze.

“Earl,” she said as she lowered her gaze and gave the two old fellows her sweetest smile. Then she eyed the drone again.

“What’s up, hon?” Bill said as he followed her gaze.

“Nothing much,” she said as she swiveled on one heal and returned to her car.

She closed the shotgun, the top lever crisply snapping into its catch, and set the weapon against the passenger seat. She climbed into the car and buckled up. Her eyes scanned the valley floor, peering through random wisps of silver, low-lying fog, and found what she had feared.

Near the main gate, about a quarter of a mile away, sat two black Suburbans. Beside one of the SUVs stood a man. Best she could tell, he had a set of controls in hand.

Her car’s turbocharged three-liter engine fired to life, a deep rumble percolating from beneath her seat. She backed out, then put the transmission in Drive, reached down and clicked the Sport Mode button to on, and started for the parking lot’s exit. She rolled down the windows, peered upward, and found the drone again. As she watched, the precision-made craft began a steep dive, heading for her. She stopped, put the car in Park, left the motor idling, and got out. With an ear to the drone and an eye on the black SUVs, she reached for her shotgun.

She chambered two Winchester AA Diamond Grade cartridges and closed the breach. Four men clambered from one of the SUVs and formed a line across the road. They began a slow march toward her.

The drone’s approach quickened, and its dive angle steepened. She tracked the aircraft. At seventy yards out, she blasted it with both barrels of her shotgun. The rapid firing of two rounds drove the gun’s butt deep into her shoulder, rattled her teeth, and would leave a nasty bruise on her cheek.

The drone whirled sideways and spun before it hit the valley floor and cartwheeled into a ditch. Its battery pack and electronics smoldered, sending up a thin, gray vapor, marking its resting place.

She flipped the top lever and broke the shotgun open, sending two spent cartridges against her car’s beautiful paint. She cringed. From her vest, she chambered two more rounds.

A cacophony of shouts rose from behind her. She pivoted. Earl and Bill led a gaggle of white-haired and balding men toward her position. “Crap,” she said.

She again leaned the shotgun against the passenger seat and climbed into the car. She reached under the driver’s seat. From a Cordura holster affixed to the seat’s underside she retrieved a 9mm Glock and two loaded clips.

Driving slowly toward the approaching foursome in black battle gear, she steered the car with one knee as she slid a clip into the pistol’s grip. She pulled the slide action back and released it, loading a 9mm Parabellum round. Habitually, she flipped the selector to Safe. This was not the time for that, she thought, and disengaged the mechanism.

She pushed the car’s transmission into neutral and gunned the engine. Two hundred yards from her, the goons parted, two to each side of the narrow access road. At the SUVs, the drone pilot stowed his gear. A tall man with close-cropped white hair and dressed in gray cammo emerged from one of the vehicles and stood. He lifted a hand, activating a lapel mic, she assumed. He spoke, and the men approaching her crouched low. She gunned the engine again and when it returned to an idle popped the transmission back into Drive.

She held the footbrake and glanced in her rearview mirror. The posse of gentlemen, her friends filled the lane, heading her way. “Damn,” she barked.

She released the brake and jammed the throttle to the floor. The BMW roared and leaped to life. Tires squealed and bit. Loose pavement spat up, peppering the wheel-wells. She gnashed her teeth, as she opened the windows. The men in black got to their knees and lifted their rifles. In unison, muzzle flashes appeared from four barrels. Rounds clinked off sheet metal, pierced her windshield, and shattered a side mirror. She glanced back again, fearing the worst.

Behind, her friends scrambled about like free-range chickens under a fox attack. Some crotched to the protection of the ground or rolled into roadside ditches. Others kept coming as they loaded shotguns, training and memories of distant battles driving them onward, she speculated.

Approaching the forward firing line, she pulled the car’s e-brake handle, jerked the steering wheel left, and fired two rounds from her Glock through her passenger window. The men dove flat on the ground. She released the brake, corrected the car’s slide, and rammed the throttle down once more.

The BMW lurched, pressing into the seat. As she passed between the men, she fired round after round, first through the right-side window, then the left, all rounds passing overhead. With an onset of gunfire from the other group, her windshield popped, shattering it into a million pieces held frozen before her. She set the pistol on the passenger seat, reached for the shotgun, and with one hand tried to blast the windshield’s remains free of its frame. The shotgun blast sent her ears ringing. With a two-inch hole in its center, the opaque glass hung stubbornly in place. She lifted her foot from the throttle and kicked the glass onto the car’s hood. She nearly wept as the shattered windshield scraped across the car’s hood, stubbornly dragging claw marks in the paint as it went.

The first goons receding in the mirror, she jammed the throttle down and careened onward. Two more men had exited the other Suburban. The white-haired man barked orders. His men scattered.

She pushed the gas pedal so hard she thought she’d drive her foot through the floorboard. The BMW’s speedometer rose through 100MPH as her car careened toward the black SUVs. More bullets pinged the sheet metal of her car as she passed between the henchmen.

As she sped through, their aim looking for her, their rounds mostly found each other, ripping at Kevlar battle armor.

The tall man stood his ground, hands on his hips. He pivoted, following as she passed by at 120MPH. Their eyes locked in a moment that slowed to a frame-by-frame motion picture.

She came to the intersection of Dagnino Road. She braked and steered hard into a power slide left, heading toward town, hoping to get these goons to follow her away from her impromptu protectors, her friends, men who had mentored her since she took up the sport at the age of thirteen.

Through her only serviceable mirror, she watched as the tall man and two others rushed into their vehicle to begin their pursuit, as she’d hoped.

She needed a place away from civilians where she could deal with these assholes—and to figure out what this was all about. She knew that in her burgeoning career, she’d already made a few enemies, but who were these guys?

The valley and farm roads were thankfully quiet that morning. A plan took shape in her mind. She sped through a left-hand turn onto Raymond Road and started looking for a place she remembered, a small airfield for remote airplanes. But would there be people there?

In a quarter of a mile, she found the airfield. It appeared to be abandoned. Still at high speed, she pitched her horribly disfigured coupe to the right and burst through a locked gate and into a gravel parking lot. Her car hurdled and crashed down as it sprinted over gaping potholes. She passed a long, covered row of tables and benches where hobbyists would normally work on their planes and a small office building about halfway down the row.

At the far end of the airfield, she threw the car sideways and stopped behind a pair of shipping containers, near what appeared to be a short control tower.

By the time she stood beside her car, reloading her pistol, and reaching for the shotgun, the black SUV had found her. Its driver proceeded through the remains of the gate and navigated around the larger of the potholes. The vehicle stopped a hundred yards away. The three men calmly climbed out.

At the back of the SUV, one man unloaded and prepped another drone for launch. Their commander barked an order and the last of the trio crossed through to the airfield, moving forward to flank her position.

She sprinted to the cover of one shipping container, and then to the other. She eyed the control tower, noting how exposed a position there would be. She found a ladder lying beside a container, righted it, and climbed up. On the container’s top, now her belly, shotgun in one hand, pistol in the other, she slithered forward. With the three men now in sight, she aimed with her Glock at the one on the airfield. She squeezed the pistol’s trigger.

The man crumpled sideways, grasping a perforated and bloody calf muscle. His rifle lay beside him. He reached for it. She fired again, hitting the assault rifle where her aim would do the most damage, the trigger assembly. The man coiled into a ball and froze.

The second drone lifted off. Its pilot was out of easy firing range; she’d have to track and destroy the drone as it approached, she thought.

She looked back. The commander strolled through the parking area, coming in her direction. His arms were down, hands hovering over twin sidearms like a gunslinger.

“What’s this all about, mister?” she shouted.

“Ah, zayka, that is a simple thing, you see,” the man said as he continued his approach.

“Zayka,” she murmured to herself. “Little rabbit. Russian.”

“Come down from there and I will tell you all about it, zayka.”

“You’re a long way from home, comrade. Did you bring your crew with you?”

“No, no. Is too easy and less costly to hire your veterans. They miss the battle. Trained so well, then left to beg for scraps on your city streets.”

She released a round from her pistol. The copper-jacketed 124-grain slug dug gravel from a spot one foot to the man’s left. He halted. “Come now, zayka,” he said.

The “little rabbit” thing started to piss her off. As the man had intended, she knew. She twisted to lie on one side and pulled out her smartphone as she scanned the horizon near the trap range. It was hard to tell at that distance, but she thought she saw—or imagined—a parade of pickup trucks and SUVs heading her way. Ahead of them, the other black Suburban hurled down Dagnino then turned sharply onto Raymond Road in the opposite direction, running from the fight. Behind her, toward town and well in the distance, a familiar sound. She checked the time: 0900. She hummed to herself, mimicking the siren’s wail. Should she call her boss? Call for backup?

“Zayka, come down. Let us talk. I will tell you a story, a family epic,” the commander said.

“I hear you just fine, comrade,” she said. “Tell me your story, then be on your way. No one else needs to get hurt today.”

“You remember Elena, your grandmama, yes?”

“Yes, of course. They named me after her.” But how does he know my grandmother?

“Well, zayka, your grandmother was to be my wife. She was the only woman I have ever truly loved.”

“And?” Elena sniped.

“And your grandfather stole my Elena from me.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It has everything to do with you, zayka.”

Elena pushed her phone into her pocket and glanced around the facility.

“How so, comrade?” she asked, as she estimated the arrival of her friends.

“I will end your family’s bloodline here today, zayka.”

She took a chance, raising her head to see the man. He had resumed a slow advance.

Elena picked up her shotgun and pointed the barrel over the edge of the shipping container. Aimed. The man halted again.

The hum of the drone came close. She rolled onto her back, aimed, and fired a single barrel this time. The drone swerved at the last moment. She had missed—a rarity. The drone escaped left and outside of Elena’s firing range.

She spun back, looking for the drone pilot. He still held a position behind the SUV.

“So, comrade, when was this, this theft of your woman?”

“Da, da, zayka, that was many years ago. Your grandfather held a position at your embassy in Moscow. I was KGB. We knew he was an operative for the CIA. He knew I was KGB. But we never spoke of this. Your grandfather and I became… well, comrades, of a sort. He and his then-girlfriend, someone also from the embassy, would come to my apartment for dinners. Then, well, he took her. Took my Elena. Using his contacts and influence, he smuggled my love away. It took quite some time and effort, the records now show. But he returned to America, my wife-to-be, my love, in his arms.”

“You killed him, didn’t you? That accident with his car, it was no accident, right?”

“You are a clever young woman,” he cooed. “You, too, are CIA, I have read.”

She sensed the drone moving slowly her way. She rolled to the left and fired again. This time, her aim had predicted its pilot’s move. Her shot had clipped one of the four whirring rotors. The aircraft whizzed uncontrollably to the south.

“Good shooting, zayka.”

“I don’t like to miss—ever.”

“So, my man angered you before?”

“I don’t get angry, comrade,” she said, then mumbled, “I get even.” Louder, she said, “Do you hear those sirens? You don’t have much time.”

“There is enough time for my purpose, zayka. I will end this, end your family, quite promptly.”

“Did you kill my father, too?” Elena asked, her voice suddenly shaky.

“Ah, that one was easy. But it was not me who did the killing. My son met your father in Iraq. They too, both operatives, became comrades. Then we learn who this man is, who his traitorous mother was.”

“So, he, another woman’s son, did your bidding,” Elena said, as her mind again estimated the arrival of Bill and Earl and the others.

“Vlad does what he is told. As you should, zayka. Come down from your perch. Make this easy, painless.”

Elena rolled onto her belly and lifted her head. The other goon, his drone now dead, was sprinting from the SUV to his downed partner on the airstrip, an assault rifle swinging wildly across his back, a pistol in one hand.

The man dropped to his knees and slid across the gravel, coming to his friend’s side. They spoke briefly. He rose and again darted along the airfield in a flanking move to Elena’s position.

As he skirted the shaded worktables, his legs exposed under the roofline, she dropped him with a well-placed round to one knee.

“Again, zayka, good shooting. Now it is only the two of us.”

“And what is your name, comrade?” Elena shouted, then rolled away from the edge of the container’s roof. Shotgun held in one hand, and with her pistol tucked under her waist belt, she slipped over the side and dropped noiselessly to the ground.

“I am Vladimir, little one.”

By the direction of his voice, she knew he too was on the move.

Elena shuffled along the wall of the container, the back of her shooting vest scraping across and catching on rusting paint. She approached the ladder she had used before. The sound of crunching gravel under booted feet came from around the corner. He was close.

She pushed the ladder over, sending it crashing to the ground. She sprinted in the opposite direction and headed for the control tower. Halfway there, and again seeing how exposed a position that would be, she thought better of this plan and darted to the right, toward the airfield and its benches.

Vladimir fired a split second too late, hitting Elena’s car.

“You are quick on your feet, zayka.”

Elena rushed onward, again putting the shipping containers between her and her self-appointed executioner. She passed the downed soldiers with caution, her shotgun barrels covering them. She stopped beside the office, leaned against a flagpole, and put an ear toward town and the approaching sirens—still minutes away. She eased around the corner and peered toward the road, looking for Bill and Earl. Their train of vehicles barreled along Dagnino Road. They neared the intersection with Raymond Road. They would be on-site in seconds.

Glancing about and again taking inventory of their tableau, Elena knew she needed to regain higher ground, a position where she could make the most important shot of her life.

She slid along the wall to the flagpole and looked up. In both hands, she lifted her shotgun to eye level, eyed its gleaming metal and polished stock, and kissed it before tossing it onto the roof of the office. The gun had not completed its landing before Elena was clawing her way up the flagpole, one foot clinging to the pole, the other forced to the wall of the small building.

The crunch of gravel gave Elena the man’s advancing position. She slithered across the flat roof to her right. From the west, the posse’s vehicles filled the far end of the parking lot, and flashing lights sped toward the airfield from the east. One shot, just one shot, Elena thought.

With the sound of approaching vehicles and sirens, Elena could no longer determine Vladimir’s angle of attack.

She closed her eyes and shut out the world. She let her mind’s eye fill with an aerial perspective of the facility and placed the man’s last known position in the scene. Filtering through battle tactics and history books, Elena plotted Vladimir’s strategy. Eyes still closed, she reached for the roof’s edge, felt it, and snaked along that line until she was sure she had a favored position behind a suitcase-sized air-conditioning unit.

Bill and the others shouted for Elena. Vladimir fired two shots in the air. The men scattered and shouted orders at each other. Elena smiled, then opened her eyes.

Vladimir’s head and shoulders rose over the roofline of the shade structure, his arms and hands pressing hard to lift his weight onto the roof not twenty feet from Elena.

She leaned into the A/C unit for support, gripped the pistol in both hands, and fired. Vladimir’s eyes found her as her bullet found his right shoulder. His hands flew up, pistol flailing, spinning free, and Vladimir disappeared from her sight.

* * *

Elena shimmied down the flagpole, a few happily helping hands easing her to the ground. When she found the Russian, two dozen shotguns and several pistols had him pinned down. Other men from the trap range had the two black-clad goons up and limping toward her, shotgun barrels poking them in their backs.

Earl, now at Elena’s side, said, “Nothing much, huh?”

“Well,” she started, as two sheriff’s cars and a city police vehicle skidded to a halt on the roadway and their sirens fell silent, “it might have been nothing at all.”