"Be sure of your target and what's behind it."

~ Basic firearm safety principle

It's suppertime when the white SUV pulls into the Stevens Point Sportsmen's Club, but Zandra isn't surprised that the parking lot is full of trucks.

"This is where the rich and famous of Stevens Point go after work to shoot the shit, and also guns," Zandra says.

"You must be a founding member," Sunglasses says as he puts the SUV in park. He keeps his sunglasses on even though the sun is starting its descent. "You want me to come with you this time, correct?"

Zandra looks down at the bulge in Sunglasses's pocket. "That's still a gun, right?"

"I don't think you need to worry about me being happy to see you," Sunglasses says.

"Then come along," Zandra says and hops out of the SUV. A cigarette rests between her lips before both feet are on the gravel. She sparks a fresh lighter before taking a couple tries to get the passenger door to shut.

Relishing the smoke greasing her lungs, Zandra takes inventory of the license plates in the parking lot. Gunfire pops and cracks in the distance like her knees.

Sunglasses hunches over to adjust his flip flop by the front left tire.

Going to be lots of familiar faces here, but I'm only looking for one.

The gravel parking lot leads to a gate with a check-in station resembling a guard shack. A sign on the gate explains the rules of the club: "Members only. All guns unloaded unless on range. Eyes and ears required on range. No Class 3. No drinking before shooting. No shorts. No open footwear. Shooting ends 30 minutes before sundown."

Zandra takes notice of Sunglasses's jean shorts and flip flops.

This is what you get for trying too hard, for dressing like a tourist.

"You have a change of clothes?" Zandra says to Sunglasses.

"Do you have a membership?" Sunglasses says.

"No."

Fair point.

The pair walk up to the gate. A uniformed guard with dual hip holsters and a Tom Selleck mustache appears from inside the check-in station and raises an index finger to signal to stop.

"Something I can help you two with?" the guard says.

Activate bullshit mode.

"I'm here for the lesson I'm giving," Zandra says. She removes her hands from the pockets of her purple gown. Hidden hands don't convey trust.

The guard looks Zandra up and down. He ignores Sunglasses's lack of adherence to the dress code. "You're a shooting coach?"

Of course Sunglasses, the guy, gets a pass at a place like this. Of course.

"The best," Zandra says.

"And who are you coaching today?" the guard says, his brisk tone revealing prior military service.

"Carter Cunningham," Zandra says.

The guard cocks his head to the side. Even Sunglasses seems surprised.

"Carter Cunningham?" the guard says.

Zandra keeps her smile inside. "Yes. I'm here to see Carter Cunningham. And you can tell him my name is Zandra."

The guard pulls out a walkie-talkie and turns his back to Zandra and Sunglasses. He tries to keep his voice low, but the conversation is easy to hear.

No one requests the company of Carter Cunningham. Carter Cunningham requests the company of you. The only exceptions are for those rare occasions when someone has more money than he does.

Or if your name is Zandra.

"He's not expecting a shooting coach," the guard says, turning back to Zandra.

Time to flip the script then.

"Of course not. I'm not the sort of shooting coach you normally see around here," Zandra says.

"Obviously," the guard says.

Zandra rubs her palms together to keep the dramatic effect up. "I come today free of charge. My services are offered as a gift, courtesy of a trusted client of his. I'd rather not say who, because my methods are, shall we say, as particular as this client. Very unusual."

He's going to ask me what I mean by "very unusual." Plant the seed. Beg the question. Stay in control.

"But he's not expecting you," the guard says.

"It's a surprise, child. That's the point," Zandra says. "Look, there are more guns than people in there. If I'm here to start trouble, I picked the worst place on Earth to do it."

The guard looks Zandra over again. "What did you mean by unusual?"

Works like a charm.

"Let me in and I'll show you, child," Zandra says.

The guard rubs his jaw. "Do either of you have firearms? I'll need to check them in."

"No," Zandra says before Sunglasses can say anything.

The guard disappears into the check-in station and returns with a scoped .308 scout rifle strapped over his shoulder. With a silent nod, he leads Zandra and Sunglasses down a dirt path into the grounds of the club. After winding through a stand of trees, the path splits in a Y. A sign indicates turning left leads to a clubhouse, while going right will bring them to the shooting ranges.

I feel like a teenager breaking into a liquor cabinet.

"Mr. Cunningham is at the clubhouse right now, but I need to vet you first. Like you said, you are unusual," the guard says as he veers right.

"Of course, child. I imagine members of your club take security most seriously," Zandra says.

Because some members of this club have it coming.

The guard offers no reply as he leads them toward the shooting ranges. The explosions of gunfire grow louder the closer they get. The path gives way to an expanse of cleared fields. Covered shooting stations for rifles stand paired with targets hundreds of yards away. Trap shooting stations for shotguns and pistol targets spread out beyond that. A sign with an arrow points the way to a 3-gun course.

"Busy day," Sunglasses says, surveying the shooters.

"Normal day," the guard says. He leads them to an open rifle station. It's a shooting bench similar to a picnic table on a cement slab, complemented by a shelf for gear and a tin roof. One red and one green light mount to the wooden supports of the roof. Hanging below those are a roll of clear tape and a stapler for hanging targets. Resting on the shelf are "eyes," or shooting glasses, and "ears," as in earmuffs. The guard passes both to Zandra and Sunglasses.

Zandra sees an on-off switch on the side of the earmuffs. She presses the switch to the on position and slips the earmuffs on. The blasts of gunfire are muted, but she can still hear the guard speak at a normal volume.

"Everyone new here gets the rules of the range whether you think you know them or not," the guard says. "Treat every firearm as if it's loaded. Only load when you're seated at the bench. If you're at the bench, the barrel is always pointed downrange. If you fuck up, unfuck yourself. Those are the rules. We clear?"

"Yes," Zandra says.

Sunglasses gives the thumbs up.

"Good. Now show me what you've got," the guard says.

It's been years since I've fired a gun. Good thing I won't need to today.

"I specialize in visualization of the third eye. Do you understand what that means?" Zandra says.

The guard sets the scout rifle down on the bench, barrel aimed downrange. "No."

Zandra runs a hand over the length of the rifle's chassis, eating as much time as she can for the sake of dramatic effect, as if she's creating a mental bond with the steel and laminated wood. She rests her fingers on the scope mounted in the teeth of a Picatinny rail.

"Get rid of this," Zandra says.

"Take the scope off?" the guard says.

"Follow my directions, child, and I'll show you what you've been doing wrong your whole life," Zandra says.

Are you taking notes, Sunglasses? This is going to be good.

The guard pulls a tool that looks like a cross between a screwdriver and a Swiss army knife from his pocket. He goes to work unscrewing the scope from the rifle, although he's not happy about it. Re-mounting a scope takes time.

It'll be worth it. I promise. Worth it for me, and maybe not you, but still. Worth it.

When the scope is off, Zandra points downrange and says with a flair of drama, "Choose a distance."

"Excuse me?" the guard says.

"Name a distance. Something that would impress you."

The guard rubs his jaw. "If I follow what you're doing here, let's go with something reasonable, like 300 yards. There's a target set up."

You follow me perfectly.

"Take me to the target, child," Zandra says.

"You can't just walk out there. We hang targets twice a day on a schedule. I'd have to shut down the range," the guard says.

Boo hoo.

"Then shut it down," Zandra says, noting the pain in her ankle. "And get a golf cart or something over here. I'm not walking 300 yards. Don't tell me a place like this doesn't have a golf cart."

"I can call one over, but I still can't...," the guard starts to say,

Zandra cuts the guard off with a hand in the air. She says, "This might be the most important day of your life, child. It'll change the way you see the world forever. Make this moment happen. Do it for you. Do it for Mr. Cunningham."

The guard stares at Zandra for a few seconds before keying up the walkie-talkie. A golf cart arrives a couple minutes later, and the red lights inside each of the shooting stations turn bright. The gunfire along the range goes quiet. Zandra grabs the clear tape as she gets inside the golf cart. The guard drives them out to the 300-yard target. It's a bumpy ride, and Zandra feels every inch of it in her ankle. The guard makes no attempt to avoid the dips and rises in the field.

The golf cart stops at a large rectangle of wood with a well-used bullseye target stapled to it. Out here, the sweet musk of propellant isn't as strong. Zandra reaches into her pocket and pulls out a quarter.

"This coin was minted in 2003. It's important you remember that year, child," Zandra says, holding the quarter up for the guard to inspect. He grunts in confirmation.

Zandra slides out of the golf cart and tapes the quarter to the paper target. Licking her fingers first, she offsets the coin a few inches from the center of the target, where someone would naturally try to hit. The guard watches with arms crossed.

With the quarter taped to the target, they return in the golf cart to the shooting station. The guard says something into his walkie-talkie, and the red lights switch off as the green lights switch on. The gunfire along the range resumes.

"Now have a seat, child," Zandra says. The guard sits down on the bench behind the rifle.

The con never starts when the sap sits down. Just like at Sneak Peek, it's been underway before you even realized it.

Sunglasses leans against a wooden support like a cowboy at a saloon and watches Zandra knuckle her temple in concentration.

Standing behind the bench, Zandra rests a light hand on the guard's back. In as dramatic a voice as she can muster against the gunfire, she says, "Load up."

The guard snaps in a loaded magazine and works the bolt to chamber the first round. The safety remains engaged.

"Now close your eyes, child," Zandra says.

"Close my eyes?" the guard says, the stock pressed into his shoulder.

"Follow my instructions and focus on my voice," Zandra says. The guard shakes his head but closes his eyes anyway. "Feel my hand on your back. The warmth. The energy. The way the tips of my fingers reach inside and wrap around your spine."

The guard grunts in response.

Wait it out. It'll happen.

"Now notice how the feeling in your back spreads to the rest of you. Your chest, your arms, your neck, your head, everywhere. It's like someone is draping a warm blanket over you," Zandra says. She can feel the guard's back relaxing ever so slightly. No grunting this time.

This isn't quite hypnosis, but it's close. We're aiming for good enough, not perfect.

"Keeping your eyes closed, concentrate on each part of your body relaxing. Start with your toes and go up from there. Take your time, child. Go deeper into relaxation with every breath," Zandra says.

The guard's back relaxes even more.

"Now focus right here," Zandra says. She dangles her free hand in front of the guard's face. Her pinky brushes the spot between his eyes. "Put all your attention there. Let nothing distract you, child, for you're about to unlock your third eye. This could be the most profound experience of your life."

Emphasis on "could be." Anything could happen. When pulling off tricks like this, never force the big reveal. Let the mark fill in the blanks so they feel they participated in it. That's the difference between psychics and stage magicians.

In the corner of her eye, Zandra can see Sunglasses scribbling something in a small reporter's notepad with his left hand. He propped up a smartphone on the bench to record everything.

"Visualize the quarter. Picture this rifle firing and the bullet flying out of the barrel. Now imagine the bullet colliding with the quarter. Imagine every detail, no matter how small," Zandra says. The guard is completely still. Steady, slow breathing. An aura of hibernation about him.

Perfect.

"Listen closely, child, because this is the most important part. Let the vision in your third eye guide the rifle. Keep your eyes shut and aim. Forget everything about how you usually aim. Use only your third eye. Believe. You must believe," Zandra says.

The end of the barrel moves a few inches up and down, then left and right, before settling on a position. Zandra checks that the green light is still bright. Seeing that it is, she removes her hand from the guard's back and takes a step away from the bench.

"When you're ready, switch the safety off, child, and pull the trigger. Manifest what is in your mind into reality," Zandra says.

She can't believe what happens next, but everyone else does.