ChristianI lift the heavy Glock 17, taking a ragged breath as I line up the sights with the empty soda can resting on top of the mossy tree stump. My hands are cold, and despite my best efforts, the long, heavy barrel trembles slightly in my grip. I squeeze the trigger.Pop.A muffled, hollow sound escapes the barrel—nothing remotely approaching the thunderous, ear-splitting report you’d expect from firing a bullet. The silencer works just fine, muffling the blast into something that barely sounds like a weapon. The problem isn't the gun. The problem is the person firing it.The soda can and the tree stump, sitting just ten paces away in the damp morning air, remain completely undisturbed. The bullet buried itself harmlessly in the dirt somewhere behind it.“It’s harder to aim with a suppressor,” says Gavin, stepping up beside me and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “It sits high on the barrel. You can’t see the front sights as clearly.”“I can’t hit anything,” I say, my vo
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