Page 76 of Booked for Murder

“Awful,” I admitted. “I’m about to inflict torture on myself, and I already feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

Trying to wheel myself to the front doors hadn’t gone quite to plan, and I’d made it about twenty feet before I’d gasped like a fish out of water and needed someone to handle the rest of the trip down to the firing range. I had managed the ten feet into the storage closet to admire the available weaponry, but the trip back might do me in before I had a chance to fire a single gun.

“We’ll pace you. Hampton just brought down a rather large stack of papers and a laptop for you to use in the lounge when you can’t handle your new friends safely.”

“I want two magazines emptied.”

“Someone told you that you could only do one.”

I grinned at his statement. “Maybe.”

“Hampton, you best not have been giving this girl bad ideas,” Lenard called out, which summoned Bradley, who stared at us with one brow raised. “Don’t you look at me like that, boy. You live to push her buttons, and you cannot pass on an opportunity to nettle her. What did you tell her this time?”

“I’m confused.”

“She wants a minimum of two magazines emptied before she stops for the first round.”

If Bradley rolled his eyes any harder, he’d join me in having some form of brain damage. “I told her she’d need to catch her breath after one.”

“Haven’t you learned a damned thing yet, boy?”

“Apparently not.”

“Get your gun. You’re doing twenty magazines, and your accuracy better be decent, or you’ll be doing another twenty until it is.”

Ouch. When Lenard issued ultimatums or orders, he meant them, and he’d run Bradley into the ground if he didn’t get it right the first time. “That’s a lot of ammo.”

“He can afford it.”

I couldn’t argue with that, so I didn’t. I looked over the selection of guns, and I pointed at a Browning Black Label out of my reach. “I want to try that one, Lenard.”

He pulled down the gun from the rack, checked it over, popped out the magazine, checked the chamber, and once the weapon passed his inspection, he placed it on top of my case. “Get through all four magazines with your new friends, and you can have a round with the Browning. If you like it, I’ll even drag Hugh over for another calibration, although we’ll do it in the hospital when you can be monitored.”

As I had various dates at the hospital to deal with my foot, I could deal with the restriction with some grace. “Okay.”

“See, boy? This is how you get her to cooperate with you. You offer a nice, juicy carrot for her enjoyment. Because she wants to try the Browning, she’ll push as hard as she can. If she fails her first try, she’ll do better the second until she gets that carrot she wants. If you don’t want her doing something, don’t challenge her. She will absolutely accept just about any challenge to cross her path.”

“I’ve figured this out.”

“Yet you told her she would need to take a breather after a single magazine.”

“Obviously, I wanted her to get through a minimum of two.”

“Then you appropriately goaded her into doing what you want. Good work. Make sure you keep your goads to something reasonable, else she will do something we won’t like. If you goad her into doing something we won’t like, you’ll wish I only made you do twenty magazines before letting you off the hook. And you’re only off the hook if you perform decently on those twenty magazines.”

Twenty magazines would leave Bradley’s hands numb, and I didn’t envy him after Lenard finished his evil work. “I’ll do my best to get through all five magazines,” I promised.

“You’re not capable of giving anything other than your best, so let’s get to it. I’ve got a stool set up that should be the right height for you. It’s a good chance to practice your breathing while shooting, as your lungs aren’t going to be too happy with you over this.”

“That’s a horrible understatement, Lenard.”

“You’ll be fine. It’ll just take some time.”

Breathing played an integral role in using a firearm well, and my body remembered despite the years separating me from my last practice session. My grip left a lot to be desired, but between monitoring how I stabilized my firearm, how I inhaled, how I exhaled, and focusing on my target, the rest of the world slid away.

I hadn’t realized how badly I’d needed the escape until I squeezed the trigger the first time, fought the Desert Eagle’s intense recoil, and reset for my next shot. Between breaths, I refocused on my target, aimed, and prepared to fire again. Three shots in, and my wrists, hands, and arms ached from the effort of keeping the gun under my control. The .44 Magnum’s eight rounds did precisely as Bradley warned; they exhausted me to the point I wanted to stop and catch my breath.

Instead, I kept practicing my breaths and took my time checking over my glitter-abused firearm, satisfied with her heft, the recoil and her general performance. While I did my checks, Lenard brought the target over, peeling my ear muffs off so he could talk to me. “One shot outside of the kill zone but still within silhouette. That’ll do. How do you like Bitchageddon?”