Genya Shotgun Novels & Stories

The time was now 1:14pm and she could make out some movement at the glass door which opened as two huge Japanese men in black suits walked out, followed by another of average height behind them. She moved her sniper slowly to the right as the men made their way across the parking lot to their black sedan. Looking through the scope of the magnified glass attached to her weapon, she held her breath as the chest of one of her target’s bodyguards appeared on the crisscross mark, which was immediately followed by the bald head of the yakuza boss.

Tangina! "You old man are you scamming us ?!" Aamon asked with an irritated voice and went to the office table where the briefcase was and opened it to see the gun. "O-Of course not! DSR-Precision DSR 50 sniper rifle is manufactured by Germany, it's the most powerful gun with few adjustments in it and it has 0.50 caliber round and it is also new." Mr.Delloreyes said in a nervous tone afraid that Anastacius would kill him if he was lying.

Diego nodded excitedly, "GJ. Do you know what that means?" Shin shrugged, not understanding. "It's the brand name of the manufacturing company. Damn it, how am I supposed to know what it is? You're ... the staff who supplies the weaponry." Diego smiled widely, "GJ. Gardner, James. James Gardner. Your gun was made by James, senior." Shin was silent, seemingly trying to process the information. But after a few seconds he squealed, "Wait a minute! You mean James ... made my gun? He-"

She opened a cabinet I hadn’t noticed before. My stomach dropped as she laid out knives, bottles of clear liquid, and a gun. “Poison,” she mused. “Acid. Or the gun. Which do you prefer?” “Mrs Smith, please,” I begged, shaking uncontrollably. “It doesn’t have to be like this.” She picked up a knife, turning it thoughtfully. “Let’s see what a real blood type looks like.” Pain exploded across my shoulder. I screamed. She laughed and cut the other side.

"Those stupid bastards. If they were going to ambush us, they should have at least brought a machine gun. What did they think they'd accomplish with mere handguns? Right, Valentine?" Jerry, seemingly completely at ease now that they were on the highway, asked in an excited voice. Eugene immediately frowned. An ambush with machine guns? If that had really happened, he'd be in the hospital now with holes all over his body, or packed into a body bag. Valentine silently disassembled the silver gun. A .45 caliber Colt Government. He seemed to have taken it from the dead Black gang member. Eugene cursed internally once when he recognized the type of gun the attacker had been firing, and then again

"They’re coming back for their 'Product.'" "Let them come," the woman with the scar said, racking a shotgun that looked like it had been built in the 20th century. "We’ve been practicing our 'Returns' for a long time."

Rhayan cried when the bullets hit the tinted glass window of their car. Rihanna hugged their son tightly to soothe his fear, her eyes filled with worry as she looked at Dustin. Thankfully, they were riding an Alpine Armored Bentley Bentayga. If not, the bullets would’ve already pierced through and hit his family. He deliberately chose this car, knowing danger always followed them. This vehicle was designed to withstand 7.62mm lead core, 5.56x45, M80 ball rounds, and even 2 DM51 hand grenades—why the earlier grenades had no effect on them.

As the buzz-cut man shifted his coat, the matte flank of a compact SMG flashed. “YK8,” Jake murmured. “Top-of-the-line. Lightweight. Fast. These guys are hunting something.” The bathroom door banged. A skinny man in office blues stumbled out—face pale, eyes wrong, body wired tight. The bald operator stood in one fluid motion. “EVERYONE DOWN!” he roared, swinging the YK8 up. The skinny man twitched, throat rumbling into something inhuman. Jake shoved Kim and Jane under the table. “Down—now!”

I howled, rage igniting through panic, my fingernails clawing into someone’s arm, biting down when I felt leather and flesh under my teeth. Another car screeched to a halt. For a heartbeat, the whole world froze. The driver’s side opened. A pair of polished black shoes stepped out. And then— “Zenya?” I barely recognized him, dressed in full black, hair damp, eyes unreadable behind that calm, glacial stare. He didn’t say a word. He just reached into his coat, pulled out his gun, and started shooting. One. Two. Three. Each shot a perfect execution. No hesitation.

Each center hit was worth 50 points, and I had nailed every single one. Asher clapped, impressed. “You’re amazing. You’re even better than me now, Wife. I’m so proud of you.” His words warmed my chest. I smiled and turned to Grandpa, who shook his head while laughing. “Okay, okay, you win again,” Grandpa chuckled. I pointed at the shotgun he was holding and raised an eyebrow. “This is heavier than a real shotgun. Real ones are like 3 to 4.5 kilos. This one’s at least six.”