Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Harper’s lips twitch. “Aleks, the look of actual pain on your face when you said mall—”
Polina slices a banana into little coins and shakes her head. “I’m impressed, brother. Very impressed. But don’t forget you promised Mom we’d have lunch.”
“Do I ever forget anything?”
Polina thinks it over and finally shakes her head. “Definitely not.”
“Great,” Harper mutters. I tug a lock of her hair.
“Let’s go.”
In the dense, shadowed forest behind my house, the air is thick with the smell of damp earth, the carpet of pine needles and leaves muffling Harper’s quick footsteps. Her whole presence seems like a contradiction, like a miracle pieced together — delicate in appearance but with an air of unspoken strength. She’s excited.
“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to do this,” she says, her eyes shining. She’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I found one of my father’s guns once, and it felt so amazing in my hand, but then he caught me and he beat the shit out of me.”
Beat the shit out of me.
I’ll remember that.
Not that Kolya didn’t beat our asses if we fucked around with any weapons, but that’s different.
“You must remember safety is everything when you’re using a gun,” I tell her while I look over our pistol range. The targets are a series of concentric circles painted on steel plates — simple, but useful. The same type Kolya used with us when we were younger.
“Okay, let’s hear the rules,” she says, her hands tucked behind her back.
“Are you mocking me?” I ask, all playfulness gone. She must take this seriously.
“Mocking you?” she says with wide eyes. “I hear and obey, Master.”
She is absolutely mocking me.
I give her a serious look. “This isn’t the time or place for fucking around, Harper. There are nonnegotiable rules about firearm safety.”
“Aleks, I’m hardly going to wave a gun around for fun or brush my hair with it,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Roll your eyes at me again, woman. Go ahead, I dare you.”
That gets her attention. Swallowing, her cheeks flush pink. “Okay, I’m paying attention.”
“Good.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiating. This is serious shit. “First. Always, always act like your gun is loaded. I don’t care if you personally made sure there’s no ammunition in it at all, you must train yourself to treat every single fucking weapon as if it’s loaded. Got it?”
A curt nod. “Got it.”
“Second, when handling a firearm, for example, when loading or unloading it, always make sure you point it in a safe direction.”
Another nod.
“Third. Never, ever point a gun at anything you aren’t willing to destroy. It’s not something you use as a warning. When you shoot, you shoot to kill. Only experienced shooters can do anything less.”
“Yes. Understood.”
She’s the perfect model student, so far. Her sober nod seems to mirror my own seriousness.
“Fourth. Keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target and you’re ready to shoot. If you’re not careful, you could accidentally discharge a round. It happens all the time, even to experienced shooters. All it can take is a loss of focus for a second. Are you getting all of this, Harper?”
“All guns are loaded even when they’re not, point it in a safe direction, only point at what you want to obliterate, finger on the trigger when you’re going to shoot.” She nods. “Got it.”
I stifle a growl. “Finally, always be aware of what’s in front of, either side of, and especially behind a target. Depending on the type of round you’re using, bullets can travel well beyond the target. Always think one step ahead.”
“Makes sense. I won’t forget.” Her voice carries the weight of responsibility. I nod, softening a little as I step back so we can get ready to begin.
I slide the weighty handgun into her hand, expecting to guide her through this slowly. It’s my custom 1911 in .45 ACP, the one my father gave to me on my eighteenth birthday. “This gun is incredibly powerful. The bullet it fires is a larger caliber than what most people use in handguns, even those most police use. It’s designed to maim and kill. The gun is going to kick back hard when you fire it so brace yourself for the recoil.”
I expect her to hold it cautiously, like it’s an animal ready to bite. I expect she might shake a little, as she gets used to the weight of it and the responsibility of holding a gun. But that isn’t what happens at all.
When the gun hits her palm, her transformation is instantaneous.
The very air around her crackles and shifts as if the metal of the gun has a magnetic pull. The weapon seems to be an actual extension of her. Her stance shifts, and she seems to don an air of certainty. The slight widening of her eyes tells me she feels it, too, the sense of absolute rightness.