Blackstone Gun Range Novels & Stories

“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.”

He had poured himself a Maker's Mark and grinned at the rim. Dan took Jade and me to the range that evening, where we fired five shots into the exact centre of the target. Three months of pay went into purchasing the gun, a Glock 19 that Dan had researched for longer than it had taken him to learn to fire. To buy it, I would have fasted for two months.

Even though I thought I had braced myself for the noise, the sheer vibration of a live pistol firing through the massive viewing glass walls was deafening. It was a gloomy Monday afternoon, but the lanes at the OC Indoor Shooting Range in Batangas were packed with a strange mix of families, couples, and friends all taking turns at paper targets. I had never stepped foot inside a firing range before today. A close friend of mine had suggested the trip, insisting that burning through a few magazines was the only way to forcibly shock my brain into forgetting my personal disasters for an afternoon.

Emine watched as a young recruit stealthily weaved her way through the obstacles, her movements almost ethereal, her body a silhouette in the shadows. Further along, she encountered an area where assassins honed their marksmanship skills. Rows of shooting ranges lined the walls, with targets of varying shapes and sizes. The sharp crack of gunfire punctuated the air as expert marksmen tested their precision and control. Bullet casings littered the floor, evidence of countless hours spent perfecting their deadly art.

(Third-person's POV) Two months had passed since the kidnapping incident that had left Natalie Silverstone with an injured hand. The trauma of that day had faded, replaced by newfound confidence and skill. At the shooting range, a silver bullet struck the target's center with remarkable precision. The clean shot punctured the bullseye, a testament to hours of dedicated practice. Natalie lowered her silver-loaded gun, removing her protective earmuffs and goggles with practiced ease. Her movements were fluid now, no longer carrying the hesitation of a novice. She turned to look at Florian Nightshade, who leaned against the railing with an appreciative smile playing on his lips.

’Good morning staffs, I would very much like to make this meeting a very short one’ The manager tells us. ‘For the new staffs who do not know the boss, this is mr. Jones Black, C.E.O of Mars private hospital, which you all know has branches all over the continent’. The manager says, addressing the fine piece of art beside him. Mr. Black just waves at us, a light smile on his lips which makes my breath hitch. I know I am sounding like a hopeless romantic right now but I can’t deny the attraction I feel towards this man. ‘Oh. My. God! He looks even more stunning with that smile’. Goldie says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger as she stares dreamingly at Mr. Black.

she said referring to herself and Lena which caused the room to chuckle a bit. _______ The private shooting range stretched across acres of open green and glass. The Hale estate’s personal range wasn’t some local gun club; it was a high-end retreat for men who didn’t just shoot for sport. The walls of the enclosed portion gleamed silver, lined with an assortment of firearms, each displayed like a trophy. A glass wall opened to the mountains in the distance, sunlight spilling across the polished floor.