Who’d have ever thunk it... Less than 24 hours after graduating from Gun For Hire Academy, my newly found skills would be put to the test, in a life threatening encounter.
Unlike the rest of my class, I had no real personal interest in the subject matter. I’m not what you’d call a “gun guy.” I didn’t own a gun, nor was I in the market for one. And far different from my fellow classmates, I never thought I’d get any personal use, whatsoever, out of what I’d be learning. I was there purely for professional reasons.
As an author, I often find myself neck deep and intimately involved in research on a whole host of wacky subjects, most of which, if it wasn’t for the project at hand, I’d never give a second thought. Learning to shoot a gun was one of those subjects. There I sat, prepared to learn yet something else that I was bound to soon forget. But the instructor seemed like he’d be a lot of fun and the coffee and donuts were more than decent, so I made sure my wife wasn’t around, grabbed a second donut, settled in and thought... hell, this might be fun after all.
The trainers name was Anthony Colandro. Nice guy. Funny guy. Certainly nothing like the gun-totin‘ Ramboesque figure I pictured in my mind when I first signed up for the program.
I was introduced to Anthony and Gun For Hire by Bill Poole, National Director of Training at the NRA National Headquarters in Fairfax Virginia. I wanted to find a firearms expert who could show me around the world of firearms, give me a few pointers and answer some of my questions. Anthony’s was the only name he gave me, and once I met him, I instantly knew why...
Anthony is one of those people who is larger than life--the moment he enters the room everyone knows it. The first thing you notice about him is his smile, juxtaposed to his menacing 6’ 3” frame, its warm and kind. Although he’s known for his affable sense of humor, and trademark light hearted “ball-busting,” which he skillfully employs to soften the omnipresent seriousness that accompanies deadly weapons training, behind the smile you get a real sense of devout seriousness about what he does and who he does it for. And that attitude and skill set is carried forward throughout his staff.
It doesn’t take one long to notice it. The main emphasis at Gun For Hire Academy is safety. Some say they’re obsessed with it. Much as Gun For Hire’s training methods make the intense instruction surprisingly a lot of fun, the instructors and staff are quick to remind: this is not a game and the gun in your hand is not a toy.
I took the full load of training--basic firearms safety, personal protection in the home, personal protection outside the home, NRA First Steps training, and even the excellent Refuse to be a Victim course. I trained in the handling, selection and safe use of handgun, rifle and shotgun. I even learned how to reload my own ammunition. And then I took the same round of courses on an instructors level. In the process I guess you might say I was transformed from a clueless hoplophobic (a term coined by famed gun writer Colonel Jeff Cooper --meaning someone with an irrational fear of weapons) to a streetwise “gunslinger” all at one fell swoop.
I finished my training on a Sunday afternoon in late March. The very next day I was back at my desk writing about the events of the past few months I spent with the Gun For Hire crew. When I’m not on the road, I work from home. In addition to writing, my work requires me to often host or guest host on-air broadcasts throughout the world, but through the marvels of modern technology, many of those “appearances” are broadcast via satellite and over the Internet, right from the comfort of a sound studio adjacent to my own home.
My studio was built to be soundproof, and our builder really did a fine job of it--to the point, I believe, a marching band could be parading through our living room and I’d hear nary a peep. On top of that, our home is kinda isolated--in a rural part of the state about 100 miles equidistant from both New York and Philadelphia, set back a few hundred yards from the main road and surrounded by farmland. We don’t often get many passers by dropping in--unless you count critters--so imagine my surprise when I heard someone pounding on my front door.
It was a cold and dreary rainy day, the kind that cuts right through to the bone. I got tired of sipping my cold cup of coffee and figured it was time for a little break, so I grabbed my souvenir Gun For Hire coffee mug and headed into the main house to the kitchen. That’s when I heard it--the pounding on the door...
I made my way through the kitchen and dining room to the front of the house, to see what all the noise was about. As I turned the corner I spotted him. A young man in his late teens, dressed in droopy-ass jeans a la “gangsta” style (a fashion statement, as I learned from one of the cop/instructors at Gun For Hire, that had originated in prison. According to legend, inmates must wear their uniform pants without belts-- which apparently can be fashioned as a weapon. Hence the droopy-ass look). He was also wearing a white tee shirt--which struck me as kind of odd since it was barely above freezing outside.
As I approached the door the young man seemed a little stunned to see me. “What can I do for ya?” I shouted through the closed door. It’s a funny thing. Looking back, had this happened a few weeks prior, I would have reflexively opened the door without giving the matter a second thought. But now? ... Not so much.
The young man then mumbled something in response to my question. I couldn’t hear what he was saying so again I asked, “what do you want?” And again, he mumbled an unintelligible response. “I’ll be right back,” I said.
By this time, my newly found senses told me that something wasn’t right. I went back around the corner to where I now keep my gun safe and fetched my legally permitted Smith and Wesson 642 revolver. (Anthony had personally helped me step-by-step through the permitting and selection processes-- and diligently worked with me as I trained and trained and trained with it over the prior six weeks.)
I put the loaded revolver in my pocket and headed back to the door.
As I approached the door, I could see my unannounced visitor standing there looking very nervous and fidgety. Again I asked what he wanted. Once again, a mumbled response. I put my hand inside my pocket and gripped my revolver, planted my front foot a few inches behind the door--too prevent it from being easily pushed in, leaned into an aggressive stance, opened the door till it wedged against my forefoot, and in my best “command” voice asked, “Just what exactly are you looking for?”
In response, the young man bolted from my front porch, leapt over the shrubbery, jumped into his car and screeched backwards down my driveway, knocking over the trash cans in the process, and off he went.
I don’t mind telling ya, I stood there feeling a little foolish. Had all my newfound paranoia just caused me to scare the crap out of some poor kid, who was maybe just looking for directions?
Normally I would have blown it off and went back into the kitchen, to pour another cup of Joe, then head back to work. But, instead, I decided to call the police and report an incident, that a few weeks ago, would have seemed perfectly harmless but now seemed quite suspicious.
I began by apologizing to the police dispatcher for my call. It’s a small town. I know the chief and many of the officers in town. Honestly, I felt a little ridiculous reporting a knock at the door. The dispatcher insisted on sending an officer to the house. I told my story, the cop wrote some notes and was on his way.
A few hours later, another knock at the door...
It was the officer who had taken the report.
As I opened the door he held up a photocopy of what appeared to be a mugshot.
“This the guy?” He asked.
“Yeah, that’s him,” I said.
“Part of a roving gang ... part of MS13,” he said. “Wanted for armed robbery, attempted murder... believed to be working with two other accomplices ... really bad dudes. They hit four other houses this morning. One knocks on the door while the other two wait around the corner. If no one answers, they bust the door down.”
Two days later I got a call from the detective in charge of the case. That’s when I learned the rest of the story. They caught the guys--all of them armed to the teeth, all with laundry list histories of violent behavior--including murder.
I told the detective about the course I took at Gun For Hire while researching a new book. “Ya know,” he said. “That damn course probably saved your life.”
I learned a lot. Likely, more than I paid for. Certainly more than I ever expected I’d have to use. And it was, as I first presumed, sitting there in that classroom on my first day with powered sugar down the front of my shirt, a whole lot of fun.

Alexander J. Berardi
International Best Selling Author and Broadcast Host

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