Another fragging dumpster. It looked like it was gonna be one of those nights. Falcon didn’t comment out loud, just raised the pistol and steadied it in what he thought was the proper two-hand posture. He settled his finger on the trigger—at the last moment remembering to flip the safety off—and applied pressure. The laser lit, painting the dark blue dumpster with a red dot. The aiming spot trembled, then steadied as he tightened his grip on the butt. He took a deep breath, held it. Pulled the trigger. The gun barrel jerked to the left.