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3:45 p.m., a chilly Tuesday, Del Norte Gun Club

Boom!

The 9mm semiautomatic Ruger is cold in my hand. I squeeze the trigger again.

Boom!

The gun kicks back, but I stand straight, arms outstretched, legs planted shoulder width, eye steady on the sight, both hands on the grip. Squeeze.

Boom!

I drop the big gun and look at my instructor, who worked me to the Ruger through shotguns, rifles and small handguns.

"How did I do?"

Our hair whips in the wind at 6,600 feet on 700 rugged acres carved out of the King Ranch, far, far out on the West Mesa. Mount Taylor looks close enough to touch, and the Rio Grande Valley is a distant vision.

The quiet is eerie, broken only by the sporadic popping of gunfire from shooting ranges tucked into the hills.

"Let's take a look," he says.

We walk 50 feet to the target, Adolf Hitler on a sheet of paper. My shots miss Der Führer but not by much. Mean Ruger holes rip into the white around his body.

Walking back, some final pointers. "Aim lower since the gun is kicking up; center the sight a little to the left."

I set up and squeeze off a shot. Wait. Squeeze. Wait. Squeeze.

Gun at my side, we walk back to the target. We peer at the holes. A hit this time but on the arm, nothing lethal.

"You're ready," he says. "This is the moment you've been waiting for."

I'm stoked. I came to the range a wimpy city girl who'd never held a firearm. Now I stand ready to gun down a bad guy.

My instructor loads 10 bullets into the clip.

"Pop this into the grip, get into your stance and fire all 10 shots without stopping," he says.

"Empty it."

I know exactly what to do. The many TV cops of my lifetime step into my body.

I slam the clip into the gun, widen my stance, lower my head, grip with both hands and line the sight onto Hitler's heart.

I don't flinch.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The gun smokes, which, for some reason, surprises me.

I smile at the instructor, and he smiles back. We walk to the target.

Ten shots, 10 hits.

All around the heart.