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“Okay, let’s hear the rules,” she says, her hands tucked behind her back.
“Are you mocking me?” I ask, all playfulness gone. She must take this seriously.
“Mocking you?” she says with wide eyes. “I hear and obey, Master.”
She is absolutely mocking me.
I give her a serious look. “This isn’t the time or place for fucking around, Harper. There are nonnegotiable rules about firearm safety.”
“Aleks, I’m hardly going to wave a gun around for fun or brush my hair with it,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Roll your eyes at me again, woman. Go ahead, I dare you.”
That gets her attention. Swallowing, her cheeks flush pink. “Okay, I’m paying attention.”
“Good.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiating. This is serious shit. “First. Always,alwaysact like your gun is loaded. I don’t care if you personally made sure there’s no ammunition in it at all, you must train yourself to treat every single fucking weapon as if it’s loaded. Got it?”
A curt nod. “Got it.”
“Second, when handling a firearm, for example, when loading or unloading it, always make sure you point it in a safe direction.”
Another nod.
“Third. Never,everpoint a gun at anything you aren’t willing to destroy. It’s not something you use as a warning. When you shoot, you shoot to kill. Only experienced shooters can do anything less.”
“Yes. Understood.”
She’s the perfect model student, so far. Her sober nod seems to mirror my own seriousness.
“Fourth. Keep your finger off the trigger until your sights are on the target and you’re ready to shoot. If you’re not careful, you could accidentally discharge a round. It happens all the time, even to experienced shooters. All it can take is a loss of focus for a second. Are you getting all of this, Harper?”
“All guns are loaded even when they’re not, point it in a safe direction, only point at what you want to obliterate, finger on the trigger when you’re going to shoot.” She nods. “Got it.”
I stifle a growl. “Finally, always be aware of what’s in front of, either side of, and especially behind a target. Depending on the type of round you’re using, bullets can travel well beyond the target. Always think one step ahead.”
“Makes sense. I won’t forget.” Her voice carries the weight of responsibility. I nod, softening a little as I step back so we can get ready to begin.
I slide the weighty handgun into her hand, expecting to guide her through this slowly. It’s my custom 1911 in .45 ACP, the one my father gave to me on my eighteenth birthday. “This gun is incredibly powerful. The bullet it fires is a larger caliber than what most people use in handguns, even those most police use. It’s designed to maim and kill. The gun is going to kick back hard when you fire it so brace yourself for the recoil.”
I expect her to hold it cautiously, like it’s an animal ready to bite. I expect she might shake a little, as she gets used to the weight of it and the responsibility of holding a gun. But that isn’t what happens at all.
When the gun hits her palm, her transformation is instantaneous.
The very air around her crackles and shifts as if the metal of the gun has a magnetic pull. The weapon seems to be an actual extension of her. Her stance shifts, and she seems to don an air of certainty. The slight widening of her eyes tells me she feels it, too, the sense of absolute rightness.
It’s as if she’s shedding a skin, revealing her true persona.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Harper was born to hold a gun.
I take a step back.
I planned on framing her from behind to show her how to hold it, how to stand. I planned on reminding her to be careful.
I don’t say anything. Sheknows. Somehow, she just knows how to hold it correctly, how to align her sights.
With absolute calm, Harper raises the gun. Her posture is flawless, grace married with lethal precision. There’s no hesitation, no fear, only the sound of her breath enveloped in the dense forest around us.
