Blackstone Gun Range Novels & Stories

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 asked. We walked towards my shooting range. Yes, I do have my own shooting range on my estate; it is better than going to one every time we train. We made our way over to the target area and pulled out ear muffs. I let Bella go first and watched as she took off the safety of her gun. I stood back and admired her backside. She had a fucking nice ass. One I would like to spank. Get your head out of the gutter, Ace. I scolded myself. I watched as she shot the dummy in the head, heart, and in the goons. Fuck, she was good. I thought she would miss it since it was a few meters away.

“Pitiful.” “Good to know. Nik! Make sure we check in on our first few shipments of these once they’re delivered,” I call to my brother over my shoulder. “We don’t want disgruntled customers coming at us over plastic shit.” “You got it.” Nik salutes from where he’s finagling some wiring in the control booth. I don’t know what he found in disarray, but it’s enough to get him cursing under his breath. Pulya, this gun range, is one of Nikolai’s personally-owned businesses. He wanted something more original than a nightclub or restaurant.

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.

“I won’t. I promise.” I ran out of the house and made for the shooting range. It was located in the vast backyard of the mansion. I halted in my steps when I saw him. For some unknown reason, my heart rate picked up as I continued to stare at him. He was dressed entirely in black. The jeans and tank top he was wearing molded his body in a way that was sinful. His exposed arm muscles flexed as he loaded the gun he was holding and I felt my mouth go dry. He had a look of deadly concentration on his face as he aimed and fired. The reverberating echo from the shot pulled me out of whatever trance I had fallen into. I walked over to his booth and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He removed th

The shooting range was nothing like what Jems expected. She'd imagined something loud and chaotic, full of tough-looking men firing weapons in every direction like some action movie. Instead, Christopher brought them to a private indoor facility on the outskirts of the city, sleek, professional, and almost clinical. The air smelled like gun oil and something metallic she couldn't identify. The walls were reinforced concrete, thick enough to swallow sound, and the only noise was the distant rhythmic pop, pop, pop of someone practicing in one of the far lanes.

“We’re here.” I look past him. Not a restaurant. Not a party. A gun range. My blood goes cold. Is he going to shoot me? Dante’s already out of the car, holding my door open. His men stay back by the SUVs, giving us space. “Inside,” he says. Not a request. The range is empty. Reserved. Of course it is. He leads me to a lane, sets a case on the counter. Clicks it open. Inside is a matte black Glock.

I turned. “Reserved,” I repeated. “Yes.” She held my gaze with the steady patience of someone who had spent thirty years managing wealthy teenagers and was not easily shaken. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” I looked at the books once more. Criminal law. Forensic evidence. State statutes. Four days. Mae Lawson had been at Blackthorn for four days, and she was already building something. I smiled at Mrs. Pembrook. “No,” I said pleasantly. “Thank you for your help.”

“Defense isn’t about brute strength; it’s about anticipation. Every move you make should come from understanding your opponent—and, more importantly, your own body.” Every blocked kick sent a jolt through my muscles. Sweat clung to my skin, I wasn’t just enduring—I was learning. After a grueling session of basic drills, Baron transitioned to the next phase—shooting practice. We made our way to the gun range, strategically located on the left side of the house. The walls were adorned mahogany panels, and the floors were covered in thick, sound-absorbing mats.