Blackstone Gun Range Novels & Stories

Ramil Finn grinned at Blake when he saw the latter was looking at him and Hoggins with disbelief. “And I agree to that!” Hoggins added with a wink. The three moved with speed and minimal silence to avoid attracting attention. Sniper rifles can only shoot up to eight hundred meters from the shooter’s spot to its target. And since Brianna gave the orders to make a stop and wait for the next command when they reach a mile distance from their target location, Blake and his team were positioned farther by half a mile to the shooter by distance. And because the barracks was surrounded by mountains in the midst of the forest, Blake saw the flash of glass shining opposite from his direction. Now the

Blakeley watched as she took off her jacket and picked up a gun, she looked so cool as she did. “It feels nice standing so close to you.” Tokyo said and Blakeley smiled. “Thanks.” Blakeley replied and she walked away, Blakeley walked after her and Tokyo noticed she was following her. Tokyo took her to a part of the warehouse that had a place where they could test run guns and dummies that could be shot at. “Wow.” Blakeley muttered. Tokyo stood far from the dummies and Blakeley stood next to her. She watched her shoot at the dummies and the bullet kept hitting them in the head.

< Nah bro, not tonight > Emmett sent a mock sticker before pocketing his phone. [ The Shooting Range ] The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the sound of muffled gunfire echoed off the walls. The shooting range was painted in matte black and gold, fluorescent lights flickered above, seperated by bulletproof partitions. In the middle of the building, there were several human-shaped targets hung motionless, some riddled with holes others not destroyed yet. The shooter fired another bullet destroying another target completely. He had earplugs and tactical goggles on as he kept on firing targets.

Founder and CEO of Wolfguard. Private security for the untraceable elite. Ghost in human form. He stood at the edge of the shooting range built into the private facility's underground level, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, black tactical gear hugging his frame. The scent of oil and gunpowder hung heavy in the air, but his breathing was steady. Controlled. A target slid down the lane. Ten meters. Moving. Marked for headshots. He fired three times. All hits. None clean. He lowered the weapon. Not good enough.

Another shot rang out, and a bird dropped down from the skies like a missile. This was a firing range. The Branderton estate wasn’t just excessive; it was absurd. Somewhere between the tennis courts and the guest cottages sat a private firing range Reid’s father used whenever stress or politics or life demanded an outlet. I’d only seen it once, from a distance. In short, the estate could have passed as a mini resort. Another shot tore the air, precise and deliberate, but the birds were already out of harm's way. Ella groaned, rolling her eyes.

Roman found her at the range on a Wednesday morning, which should have been impossible, because Dani had never told him where the range was, not the actual location, and when she saw his car parked at the edge of the gravel lot at six-fifty in the morning, she stopped walking with her bow case over her shoulder and stared at it for a long moment before she went in. The Range 9 Archery Club sat on a thirty-acre strip of county land south of Bramwell, carved out of a pine plantation that had gone feral, the trees grown up thick and dark and close, the lanes cut into them like corridors. The club had been there since 1974, run by volunteers, funded by dues that barely covered the mowing, and th

Dante stared down at the wide table. Different types of firearms lay on it—rifles, shotguns, and handguns. He placed down the golden handgun. His eyes swept across the table, back and forth—too many options to test. He picked up a black assault rifle from the table. His eyes flickered to the target. This was his private shooting range. It lay behind his mansion. The grass swayed under the whisper of the wind. The field was vast. Dante’s men were stationed at every corner.

“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.

His hand hovered at my lower back, not possessive, just there. Outside, the late morning sun cast golden hues over the gravel yard. The scent of oil and powder lingered faintly in the air. The men had set up a makeshift shooting range in the backyard. Plastic bottles lined up along a fallen tree trunk. A few rusted tin cans. Rick released me gently and walked off to join the others—Jace, already geared in black, and Jaxon, shirtless with his sunglasses pushed up his head, holding a rifle like it was a beer bottle.

Itsuki teased, which made Mariko glare at him. If looks could kill, he’s probably dead on the spot. Itsuki turned his gaze away from her, and whistle as if nothing happens. While Marcus looked at the two people in front of him, oblivious to what is happening in his surroundings. He was busy thinking of the pointers Mariko gave them earlier, as he wanted to remember all of it in his head. He didn’t even notice that they already arrived at the shooting range. Marcus gasped as he was amazed, at seeing different types of guns, hung on the wall. Some of them were in the closed bullet-proof glass cabinet, placed in order according to their styles from the smallest guns, to the biggest ones. On the