by R. J. Blain
Next time, I would not tempt fate. I would keep my mouth shut rather than invite trouble. “Neat handwriting should be a requirement for graduation.”
“I’ve seen your handwriting. You would be sent back for remedial lessons,” Bradley muttered.
“Personal notes should be exempt!”
“Those were personal notes in the margin.”
Crap. “All right. Hit me with it. What else am I not going to like?”
“The entirety of the bill we have to pick through with a fine-toothed comb. The only good news? You can get in a lot of reading between rounds at the firing range, as with your current lung capacity? You’ll unload your magazine and need to catch your breath.” Bradley reached between the seats and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll get better. Push as hard as you can for the first two weeks doing what you can, and you’ll notice a big difference. Once you’re in the boot, your condition will improve faster, but you’ll be pretty miserable for the first three or so weeks in the boot. That’s when you can hop up and down the stairs, but I’ve been told we should have a chair nearby because you’re going to make it up a flight and stop for a while.”
My ability liked me so much it did its best to both save me and kill me off. “Can we stop telling me things I won’t like now?”
“Sure, Janette.” Bradley chuckled and gave my shoulder another squeeze. “I promise things will get better soon.”
Eighteen
There are your new friends.
The Hamptons, as usual, had gone overboard during their home renovation project. The firing range lurking beneath their backyard also functioned as a bomb shelter and general bunker. A shooter’s paradise waited for me, and I could pick almost any weapon I wanted without having to leave the storage room. From tiny Rugers meant for easy concealment and oversized Desert Eagles exactly nobody needed but owned because of bragging rights, the gun world was my oyster.
I needed to stop drooling before someone noticed.
Lenard caught me staring, and he chuckled, going to a locked cabinet, opening it, and pulling out the silvery case he’d brought to my apartment and setting it on my lap. “There are your new friends. The case, like the guns, is calibrated to you, so you don’t need a combination code to open it. Anyone else wishing to access the weapons will need the code. One failed code entry will result in only you being able to unlock the case.”
“Every gun safe should have this.”
“Unless the catch malfunctions, in which case you’ll need some time and a blow torch to get into it.”
“That part is less than ideal, but okay. I can live with that.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Awful,” I admitted. “I’m about to inflict torture on myself, and I already feel like I’ve run a marathon.”
Trying to wheel myself to the front doors hadn’t gone quite to plan, and I’d made it about twenty feet before I’d gasped like a fish out of water and needed someone to handle the rest of the trip down to the firing range. I had managed the ten feet into the storage closet to admire the available weaponry, but the trip back might do me in before I had a chance to fire a single gun.
“We’ll pace you. Hampton just brought down a rather large stack of papers and a laptop for you to use in the lounge when you can’t handle your new friends safely.”
“I want two magazines emptied.”
“Someone told you that you could only do one.”
I grinned at his statement. “Maybe.”
“Hampton, you best not have been giving this girl bad ideas,” Lenard called out, which summoned Bradley, who stared at us with one brow raised. “Don’t you look at me like that, boy. You live to push her buttons, and you cannot pass on an opportunity to nettle her. What did you tell her this time?”
“I’m confused.”
“She wants a minimum of two magazines emptied before she stops for the first round.”
If Bradley rolled his eyes any harder, he’d join me in having some form of brain damage. “I told her she’d need to catch her breath after one.”
“Haven’t you learned a damned thing yet, boy?”
“Apparently not.”
“Get your gun. You’re doing twenty magazines, and your accuracy better be decent, or you’ll be doing another twenty until it is.”
Ouch. When Lenard issued ultimatums or orders, he meant them, and he’d run Bradley into the ground if he didn’t get it right the first time. “That’s a lot of ammo.”
“He can afford it.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so I didn’t. I looked over the selection of guns, and I pointed at a Browning Black Label out of my reach. “I want to try that one, Lenard.”
He pulled down the gun from the rack, checked it over, popped out the magazine, checked the chamber, and once the weapon passed his inspection, he placed it on top of my case. “Get through all four magazines with your new friends, and you can have a round with the Browning. If you like it, I’ll even drag Hugh over for another calibration, although we’ll do it in the hospital when you can be monitored.”
As I had various dates at the hospital to deal with my foot, I could deal with the restriction with some grace. “Okay.”
“See, boy? This is how you get her to cooperate with you. You offer a nice, juicy carrot for her enjoyment. Because she wants to try the Browning, she’ll push as hard as she can. If she fails her first try, she’ll do better the second until she gets that carrot she wants. If you don’t want her doing something, don’t challenge her. She will absolutely accept just about any challenge to cross her path.”
“I’ve figured this out.”
“Yet you told her she would need to take a breather after a single magazine.”
“Obviously, I wanted her to get through a minimum of two.”
“Then you appropriately goaded her into doing what you want. Good work. Make sure you keep your goads to something reasonable, else she will do something we won’t like. If you goad her into doing something we won’t like, you’ll wish I only made you do twenty magazines before letting you off the hook. And you’re only off the hook if you perform decently on those twenty magazines.”
Twenty magazines would leave Bradley’s hands numb, and I didn’t envy him after Lenard finished his evil work. “I’ll do my best to get through all five magazines,” I promised.
“You’re not capable of giving anything other than your best, so let’s get to it. I’ve got a stool set up that should be the right height for you. It’s a good chance to practice your breathing while shooting, as your lungs aren’t going to be too happy with you over this.”
“That’s a horrible understatement, Lenard.”
“You’ll be fine. It’ll just take some time.”
Breathing played an integral role in using a firearm well, and my body remembered despite the years separating me from my last practice session. My grip left a lot to be desired, but between monitoring how I stabilized my firearm, how I inhaled, how I exhaled, and focusing on my target, the rest of the world slid away.
I hadn’t realized how badly I’d needed the escape until I squeezed the trigger the first time, fought the Desert Eagle’s intense recoil, and reset for my next shot. Between breaths, I refocused on my target, aimed, and prepared to fire again. Three shots in, and my wrists, hands, and arms ached from the effort of keeping the gun under my control. The .44 Magnum’s eight rounds did precisely as Bradley warned; they exhausted me to the point I wanted to stop and catch my breath.
Instead, I kept practicing my breaths and took my time checking over my glitter-abused firearm, satisfied with her heft, the recoil and her general performance. While I did my checks, Lenard brought the target over, peeling my ear muffs off so he could talk to me. “One shot outside of the kill zone but still within silhouette. That’ll do. How do you like Bitchageddon?”
“Think she can take out a moose at a hundred yards?”
“With good aim, you can take out an elephant with one of these, althoug
h you generally won’t want to take out anything larger than an elk with it. That said, a hundred yards is your realistic maximum range. Your drop-out beyond that range gets nasty in a hurry.”
“What’s my drop-out at a hundred yards?”
“Two inches. With your skills and some practice to warm back up, you could make the shot.”
Two inches wasn’t bad at that range, and I eyed my gun with newfound respect. “Bitchageddon is a beast.”
“Yes, she is. Hand her over, and let’s give Pride a chance to strut her stuff for you.”
If I let her, much like Bitchageddon, the Beretta would punch me in the face, especially if Lenard made me use her automatic mode. “I’m woman enough to admit I’m scared.”
“She really will crack you in the nose if you let her, so don’t let her. If you can handle Pride, you should make it right up to Doomsday. Doomsday will be your real challenge, so I’m saving her for last. When you use her for the first time, I’ll have Hampton spot you as well, as I’d rather you not get knocked off that stool. We’ll also try you at max range.”
I eyed the target, which was set at thirty yards to give me a decent challenge despite being rusty. “What’s max range in this ridiculous gallery?”
“Fifty yards.”
Only the excessively rich installed a fifty-yard firing range in their backyard and converted it into a bomb shelter—or converted the bomb shelter into a luxury firing range. “I want to try a hundred yards, Lenard.”
“Make it through all five magazines, and as soon as you’re in the boot, I’ll take you on a field trip to a proper outdoor range so you can practice all distances.”
“Promise?”
“You’re something else. Get through five magazines, and I’ll take you to an outdoor range after you’re no longer rolling around in that very fashionable wheelchair.”
Fucking wheelchair. “I still want to throw it down the stairs.”
“That’s because you’re an independent woman who struggles with relying on others. Walking is an expression of independence for you, and when you can’t walk, you are keenly aware of that loss of independence. It’s fine to depend on others for things you cannot do for yourself, Janette. You’ll likely have a few more stints in a wheelchair ahead of you. Magic can only do so much. Don’t be stupid trying to be independent. View yourself as lucky you still have that foot, baby it so you keep having that foot, and get on with your day. Now, you be careful with Pride. For your first shot with her, I’m going to help you stabilize her. If you think Bitchageddon has recoil, Pride is her equal, and she will want you to know it. The mods installed on this gun have made her recoil worse than in the standard models. I’ve done extensive shooting with this weapon, as her mod combination can be a bear, and I had the manufacturer help with them. So, you walk lightly with Pride.”
“Please tell me Prejudice isn’t going to try to kill me after Pride finishes with me.”
“Prejudice is a kitten in comparison, and she’ll purr for you. If you falter on Prejudice, Doomsday is out of the question for today, and I’ll probably even let you test the Browning to see how you like it for getting through three of the four. If you lack the hand strength for Doomsday, that’s no fault of yours, and I’m not going to punish you for it. I might pick up a second test gun from the storage run to make you do five magazines anyway.”
“Or I can do two runs with Prejudice, especially if she’ll be my main conceal carry.”
“She’ll be your main conceal carry.”
“If I can’t handle Doomsday, then I’ll do two magazines with Prejudice.”
“Let’s get to it again. Remember to breathe and take your time. I’ll test your accuracy at speed another day. Right now, I want you to get a feel for those weapons and remember what you’re doing.”
Lenard returned the mufflers to over my ears, and while I checked over Pride, I heard shots fired from down the range where Bradley worked. Unlike me, he wasted no time between shots, likely practicing how to reset his aim as quickly as possible in case he got caught in a gunfight.
Speed and accuracy mattered when it came down to kill or be killed.
The Beretta did pack a punch, but while she bucked in my hand, I didn’t need Lenard’s help to keep her stable and away from my face. I reached for the ammo box, set it on my lap, and refilled the magazine, eyeing the fully automatic mode.
Lenard called for a cease fire, and he pulled the mufflers off my ear. “That’s not putting Pride away so you can work with Prejudice.”
Rather than waste breath talking, I pointed at the fully automatic mode.
He chuckled. “I will be helping you stabilize for that, but very well. We’ll give it a go. If you think she recoils hard in semi-automatic mode, she’s going to knock you off your stool in fully automatic mode.”
“I don’t want to fall off the stool, but I need to see what she can do.”
“Bradley, come have a look-see,” Lenard ordered.
Bradley strolled into the stall. “What’s going on?”
“She’s giving Pride’s fully automatic mode a go. I will be helping her stabilize the firearm. You will make sure she doesn’t fall off that stool should Pride try to knock her lights out.”
“That gun is terrifying,” Bradley muttered, but he stepped behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve seen him fire it in fully automatic mode before, Janette. It will take out your teeth if you’re not careful.”
I loved when men talked dirty to me about guns. “The more you talk, the more I like this gun. I’m still not sure why anyone would do this to a Beretta, though.”
“You can’t stand Glocks, and even if I modded one to your liking, you’d still bitch at me over it, so I figured I’d pervert a Beretta. It was less likely to induce significant whining. Do not ask what I had to do to get the authorizations to pervert this gun. You owe me for the rest of eternity. I’ll still make you practice with the Glocks, as you never know what sort of firearm you might end up needing to use.”
Right. In a gunfight, I needed to use whatever weapon crossed my path, and being familiar with as many different firearms as possible could mean the difference between life and death. Not understanding a safety system on a weapon might mean I couldn’t fire it, and that might result in a bullet lodged somewhere important, like my brain.
“All right.” I checked the Beretta over, switched the mode to fully automatic, and aimed for the target. “Right foot target, as I’m in a mood.”
“That mood couldn’t possibly have anything to do with your cast,” Bradley muttered, tightening his hold on my shoulders. “You can move well enough with me like this?”
I tested the firearm, moving in the full range I needed to fire the gun without punching myself in the face with it. “Yep.”
Lenard worked around Bradley, covered my hands with his, and secured a grip on the Beretta. “When you fire, she will jump hard in your hand. You will need to compensate for the recoil. You’ll instinctively want to remove pressure from the trigger, so you keep firm when you squeeze. It’ll take her less than a second for her to dump out the magazine. Unlike a bump stock, you’ll find she’s faster and more aggressive on the recoil. While a bump stock could get you nine or so rounds a second with this weapon, she’s tested out at over a thousand rounds a second in the mode we’ll be working with. That was fun to test, as we had to make a cartridge that would hold that many rounds.”
“You turned her into a machine gun?”
“That’s what happens when a bunch of enthusiasts get together with a fully automatic gun and an excuse. We had to make sure she worked, after all.” Lenard grinned and returned my mufflers to my ears, gestured to Bradley, who released me long enough to fix his mufflers, and gave me the all-clear to open fire at my leisure.
I waited for him to help me stabilize the gun, aware I’d have to work out in the gym a lot if I wanted to rebuild the strength to reliably handle the weapon.
I practiced breathing, focused o
n the right foot of my target, and squeezed the trigger, making sure to keep a firm grip on the weapon. As warned, she bucked like she meant it, which made keeping a hold on her interesting while maintaining pressure on the trigger.
Pride’s fifteen rounds discharged faster than a blink of my eye, reducing the target’s foot to confetti. I blinked a few times, regarded the weapon in my hands with a frown, and stared at the mangled foot on my target.
Lenard released my hands and pulled his mufflers off before taking mine off. “Nice, right?”
“That would not leave much of a foot left if you foolishly pointed in the wrong place,” I replied, doing a check over the gun to make certain she’d completely emptied her magazine and chamber, which she had. “I’m thinking Pride is a very good name for her.”
“How does your chest feel?”
Stupid lungs, which burned from exertion but not enough to worry me. “I’m feeling it, but I can do more.”
“Good. You can go back to practicing, Hampton.”
“Can I watch?”
“No. Back to work. Give us five minutes, as she’s going to put her weapons away and take a break. You have a lot more magazines to empty, and I meant it about your accuracy. I’ll be over to watch you, so wait for me before you start firing.”
Bradley grunted but obeyed, stomping out of the stall.
“You’re going to get cranky with this, but you’re going to take a break and read your papers until your chest feels normal again, then we’ll work Prejudice for a while. Call it thirty minutes. Then the whiner down the way can watch you and indulge in his overprotective tendencies.”
“All right. Too much exercise is just as bad as not enough exercise.”
“Right, and your color is off, so you need to rest to give your lungs a chance to catch up. The lounge will be quiet enough, as they’ve done a lot of work soundproofing the range from the rest of the bunker. Get something to drink and make sure you concentrate on taking deep breaths.”
“My doctors recruited you, didn’t they?” I accused.
