The rain was drumming in the parking lot when I pushed open the heavy glass door of Harlan’s Tactical Supply. The water was dripping from my faded jacket onto the rubber mat, and I shook it mechanically. No tactical pants, no bulletproof vest: just jeans, worn boots and a simple hoodie. From the top of my sixty-eight meter, my hair tied in a ponytail, I knew that I didn’t have the look. Too bad. I’ve never needed to advertise.
The store smelled of oil for weapons and new leather. Displays of AR-15 rifles lined the walls, display cases were full of optics and pistols. Two young men – in their twenties, freshly cut hair, shooting bags slung over their shoulders – were prowling near the bolt-action rifle department. The salesman behind the counter, a colossus with a thick beard, looked up from his phone. His gaze ran over me with a disdainful air.
« Can I help you find something? » he asked, in a tone of his usual sarcasm. As if I had lost my way in the wrong department.
I nodded to the back wall. « I’m looking for a left-handed .300 Win Mag bolt-action rifle. Preferably with a 26-inch gun. »
The two young men exchanged a smirk. One nudged the other. « Lost? » the first whispered, loud enough to be heard.
The salesman, leaning on the counter, his arms crossed, says: « Madam, this is an important caliber. The decline is violent. Are you sure you don’t prefer something lighter? Maybe a .243? Or even a .22 to start with? »
I held his gaze. « I handled heavier. I’m just missing the .300. »
He let out a chuckle, glancing at the young people for their support. Their smiles widened. « I bet she wouldn’t touch a barn fifty yards away, » one of them whispered.
The other added, « I enjoy the show, buddy. »
I smiled, amused, not angry. I had heard worse ones in the forward bases, from men who later begged me to cover them. « I don’t need permission, » I said calmly. « Just the gun. »
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