The drive to Des Plaines in the Range Rover on a Saturday morning took 26 minutes. The freeway noise, according to his Level 2 defensive driving module, indicated the following: I-90 west to Lee Street, outside lane from the O'Hare interchange, clear exit. Maxwell drove without thinking, as if he were breathing.
The DPTC parking lot was fuller than the week before. Four cars he'd never seen before: weekend regulars establishing their seasonal routines, the parking behavior of those who came every Saturday and had stopped thinking about where to park because habit had made the decision automatic. He parked in the East End, in the same spot as the week before, and stayed there for thirty seconds, as usual.
He thought about Marcus Holt.
Not anxiously. Like when you think about a routing problem with the available data, but haven't yet found the best route. Marcus Holt, senior managing director of Halcyon Capital Partners. A man who found an unfamiliar name in the South Loop property records worked diligently, hired professionals, and, once satisfied, considered the matter closed. The profile of someone patient and organized, working with resources Maxwell hadn't yet fully explored.
Two intelligent people moved through the same business environment in a large American city. One knew both sides of the story. The other was still analyzing only half the information she had found.
Maxwell went out and came in.
Diane was talking to a fifty-year-old man in a canvas jacket behind the counter about the trigger pull of a semi-custom pistol. She saw Maxwell come in through the door, which he used to check if there were people whose names he had already noted for the Saturday shift efficient, confirming and, without interrupting the conversation, she raised a finger. He went to the waiting bench.
The man in the canvas jacket left at 8:41, satisfied with something. Diane approached the counter. "Lane seven," she said. "The same Glock, or do you want to try something different?" "A Glock. But I want to practice at fifteen yards."
She didn't write anything down. She headed toward the range door. "Show me last week's thing first."
She took her place on lane seven and fired the first magazine at seven yards, the reference distance she had established. Level 2 added something to the physical sequence that Level 1 didn't: a broad environmental reference zone that accompanied the mechanical process of firing, so that the space around the target was as present to her as the target itself. Where Level 1 had been: front sight, pull trigger, follow through, Level 2 had become something like: front sight, environmental reference zone, pull trigger, reset, follow through. The sequence was the same. The breadth of underlying information was different.
She checked the magazine without saying anything. The target was removed. She studied the group: more compact than last week, higher in zone A, the distribution showing compression rather than dispersion.
"Better," she said. Not encouragingly. More like an assessment.
She moved it to fifteen yards. Changed the target. The sight picture at fifteen yards was slightly different: the relationship between the front sight and the target changed with distance, something the Level 2 module had already accounted for; the calibration was integrated into its visual processing without any conscious adjustment. She loaded the weapon, lifted it, felt its weight settle, something she was already familiar with, and emptied the magazine.
Diane re-set up the target. She studied it for a long time, longer than usual, which was important information to her.
"Where did you learn to shoot?" she asked.
"I told you last week. A lot."
"I know what you told me last week." She raised the target. I've been doing this since 1989. In 23 years, I've only had three students shoot like that on their second session. Two of them were police officers. She placed the target on the bench between them. I'm still not sure about the third one.
"Which category do I fall into?" Maxwell asked.
His expression fluctuated between a professional assessment and a suppressed laugh. "The truth is, I don't know. And I know very little about this stuff." He ticked something on the practice sheet. "Two-target transition. Dominant hand, then support hand. Begin."
He practiced the transitions for ninety minutes. Diane gave him three corrections during that time. Each was given only once, understood immediately, and not repeated. By the end of the ninety minutes, the corrections had disappeared, integrated into the physical sequence, just as they disappear when they are properly understood.
He ended the training at 10:24 and headed to streets seven and eight to collect the casings. Maxwell applied the Level 2 First Aid module to the process, just as he now does with all physical activities: automatic assessment without interfering with the main task. He had a small blister on his left index finger where the grip tape had made contact with his skin during a rapid reload. Nothing serious. She jotted it down, filed it, and didn't think much of it.
At the counter, paying: "Next week at this time." "Yes." He paused. "Can I get you something from the shelf?" Diane looked at him the way she does with everything. "Try it." "You said you've been doing this since 1989. Why?" He was silent for three seconds. To Diane Kowalski, it was like a long, thoughtful pause. "I came back from somewhere in 1988, and I needed something I could trust to be the same every time," he said. "The physics of it. They're the same every time." She placed her change on the counter. "I think you get it." He looked at her. "Yes," she said. She nodded once, as if confirming something that didn't need explaining, and turned back to her clipboard. Maxwell left Saturday morning. 46 degrees. A company landscaping truck, with a DAMAGE sign, was backing out of the parking lot at an angle that would require three attempts to navigate. He watched it, analyzed the geometry, and waited.
He made three attempts.
He returned to town.