Blackstone Gun Range Novels & Stories

“This’ll do.” Tony, ever the opportunist, leaned over the table, picking up a rifle and grinning like a kid in a candy store. “This beauty,” he said, admiring the matte-black finish, “looks like it’s ready to cause some serious damage. What’s the range on this?” Dimitri smirked. “Up to 800 yards, depending on the shooter. But for you, Tony? Maybe 300.” The room erupted in laughter. Tony shook his head, not even offended. “You wound me, Dimitri. But we’ll see who’s laughing when I take down three guys in one shot.”

She said while adjusting my posture and making sure that I maintain a solid stand. We spent nearly three hours in the room. Ciara told me that is just a basic introduction. The gun we used is a pistol but I still need to practice different kinds of guns, just in case. I tried to offer to pay for our lunch but Ciara said that it is already covered in the restaurant in front of the shooting range building. The owner is an affiliate of Blake. We took our late lunch while Ciara discuss our next itinerary for today. “We’ll meet a martial artist next. You can choose what kind you would like to take first, but you will learn at least three types.” My face scrunched at the thought and she laughed.

I just sat there, with my knees to my chest shaking my head. “NEMI!” I heard Talia shout. I didn’t even have the energy to warn her. She stopped in her tracks as she saw Namhaid. “What are you doing here?” She demanded. “Ahh, Talia! Not as rude as your brother, I see. Have we been teaching the little human how to play with fire?” Namhaid asked her, his eyes never leaving me. “YOU NEED TO LEAVE.” Talia commanded. He shook his head. “There’s no way I’m leaving her alone with you lot.” He spat. I finally found the energy to stand up, and started walking towards the house. “Leave. Leave while you still can.” I heard a familiar voice coming from the front of the garden, followed by a shotgun bein

He didn’t explain where they were going. Just handed Noah a jacket and said, “Come.” Noah followed. Hesitantly. The elevator took them deeper than Noah knew the building even had. Steel doors. Stark lights. Cold walls. "Okay," Noah muttered, adjusting his hoodie. "Definitely not brunch." Lucien said nothing. They entered the private gun range — sleek, clinical, underground. Noah stopped short at the sight of black metal cases and targets lined up like execution walls. Lucien picked a small pistol off the wall, checked it, and held it out.

~~NICCOLÒ~~ I was meant to be at Carlo's office by ten. Instead I was here, pushing everything aside. The private shooting range sat far outside the city limits, hidden behind old concrete walls and empty land where nobody complained about gunfire. It was built for men like me who needed privacy to work through their demons. To hell with my ears. To hell with the pain. To hell with all of it. I raised the gun and fired. The first shot hit dead center. The second. The third. My stance was pure muscle memory, honed by years of relentless practice. I worked through the target, making micro adjustments, grip firm despite the growing pressure in my head.

Then he turned around and led us towards the corridor on the left, all the way to a large, airy space that was decorated with shooting gears and equipment, bright and airy. Her jaw fell open as she saw the array of guns in their different types and sizes, on display at the far end of the wide space, and she swallowed a gulp. “So, like, is this a company owned range or something?” Her curiosity continued, and I smirked, dismissing the man with a nod. “This might come as a surprise to you, Elena,” I started, walking towards the car that was on the left end of the space, “but this range belongs to the GRANT’s empire.

Hound countered. “And what does that mean?” “He’s part of an organization that sells information for profit,” Hound explained. “They’ve been watching me for a while now. Leaving him alive isn’t an option.” Emily’s voice softened, her tone pleading. “There has to be another way.” Hound ignored her as they took a sharp turn, arriving at Blackstone, a renowned store for battle wear, weapons, and ether-infused gear. Two guards in rare, glimmering armor flanked the entrance, nodding to Hound as he passed.

To divert the gnawing attention, to channel the restless energy, I sought the familiar sting of gunpowder. The private shooting range, a subterranean concrete bunker beneath the estate, swallowed me whole. The air, thick with the scent of spent rounds and oil, was a comfort. I selected my preferred pistol, its cold steel a familiar weight in my palm. The magazine snapped into place with satisfying precision. “Targets up,” I commanded, my voice flat, distant. One of my guards activated the system. Dummies, with their unnerving, blank faces, lurched into view, advancing on a mechanized track. My jaw tightened.

The weight felt perfect in my palm as I racked the slide, chambering a round with a satisfying click-clack. Slipping on my noise-canceling headphones, I strode into the adjacent shooting range—a soundproof bunker I'd had built beneath the club for "stress relief." Targets lined the far wall: paper silhouettes, steel plates, the works. I raised the gun, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed off round after round. Each recoil punched through me, channeling the rage. Who the fuck thought they could touch her? In my club? Twenty rounds later, the air stank of cordite and my ears were ringing faintly even through the cans.

I rolled the bike inside, killed the lights, and headed to the armory shed. The key was under the loose brick—old habits. Inside, racks of guns gleamed under fluorescent bulbs: pistols, rifles and shotguns. I picked a few, a 9mm Glock for close range, a .45 for stopping power, an AR-15 for distance with ammo boxes heavy in my arms. The range was empty, just me and the targets under floodlights. Snow dusted the ground, swirling in the wind. I set up at the firing line, loaded the Glock first.