Bang!
The report cracked through the lane. His forearms stung from the kick, but the round punched cleanly through the paper.
Precisely speaking, the bullet had penetrated near the bullseye.
Nightingale's swallowed, adjusted his grip, and fired again. The second round landed even closer, tearing a neat hole almost on the target's center. He felt the rhythm of the gun, the tiny pattern of movement from his wrists to his shoulders, and let the sequence guide him rather than thinking each step through like a beginner.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Round after round, the shots clustered tighter. By the fifth shot the pattern formed a small group.
When the magazine clicked empty Nightingale eased the Glock down and thumbed the release.
I'm starting to hit the target. He took a step back, studying the paper riddled with holes, then decided on a brief pause.
Click! He swung the magazine free and tilted it, letting the spent casings clatter onto the floor. Without so much as a change in expression, he methodically refilled it with fresh brass rounds.
Sliding back into position, Nightingale raised the pistol and pulled the trigger in quick succession.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Each shot rang sharp through the lane, tearing the target apart with precise punctures. His grip tightened and steadied, adjusting his arms to the rhythm of recoil.
Practice by practice, pause by pause, his control sharpened... until, at last, the bullets struck cleanly on the bull's-eye.
Song shook his hands to clear the sting and tipped the magazine, letting the empty casings spill onto the floor. He slid fresh monster rounds back into the magazine then locked it into the Glock and set the pistol gently on the table.
Next he picked up the revolver and repeated the process: ejecting the spent rounds, replacing the specialized cartridges with plain brass practice rounds, and settling into a firing stance.
'Let's begin.'
Nightingale squared his shoulders and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The revolver answered with a thud that rattled his hands more than the Glock had. The muzzle flipped up sharply, forcing him to fight the instinct to jerk. The first shot sailed wide, punching the paper an inch from the edge.
He breathed, reset his grip, and fired again.
Bang!
This one landed closer. He softened his stance, absorbed the recoil through his forearms, and let the gun return to his sight picture before each squeeze. The pattern tightened with each deliberate shot. Where the Glock had favored speed and rhythm, the revolver demanded patience and control.
By the sixth round the grouping was respectable. The holes formed a compact cluster slightly below center.
Bang!
The seventh round thundered out, louder than it had any right to be, and the revolver's weight dragged hard against his wrist. The shot tore through the paper just off the bull's-eye, the impact sending a ripple through the hanging target.
Click!
The cylinder was empty. He eased the hammer down and thumbed the release, tilting the revolver until the brass casings slid free and clinked against the concrete floor. His ears still rang with the heavy bark of the weapon.
Its recoil along with its explosive sound surpasses that of the Glock.
Making a mental note, Song crouched and picked up a casing, rolling it between his fingers. He then dropped it into the bin, reloaded the revolver, and stood back into position.
He slowly pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The recoil snapped his shoulders back, but the shot punched cleanly into the target's center mass.
Bang!
Another, just beside it.
Bang!
The third, higher, clipping the edge of the bull's-eye.
The cluster was forming with no wasted effort.
When the last round cracked through, the paper target sagged under the weight of holes, but this time most of them hugged the center like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Sonny lowered the revolver slowly as the muscles in his forearms quivered from strain, but his expression remained calm nonetheless.
He set the weapon on the table beside the Glock and took a step back. Both firearms rested in silence, steam curling faintly from their barrels. The air was thick with gunpowder, feeling almost acrid and metallic. Lu Song's lungs drew it in greedily, like fuel.
His eyes lingered on the shredded target downrange.
One couldn't call him a perfect shooter but his accuracy with the gun was becoming increasingly deadly.
Who knows? Before long, I might be able to snipe someone with my eyes closed!
A quiet smile tugged at his mouth but disappeared almost as as soon as it appeared.
Practice was working.
He reached for a fresh target sheet, clipped it in place, and sent it sliding downrange. The paper flapped once before settling. Sonny rolled his shoulders, flexed his stiff fingers, and looked at the weapons laid out in front of him.
The Glock for rapid fire.
The Revolver for precise shots.
Two halves of a whole.
Nightingale stepped forward again, taking a deep breath as he lifted the revolver back into his hands.
"Again."
And then he pulled the trigger.
† †
Finished with his practice, Song left the shooting gallery carrying the two cases. A few steady strides brought him to the reception desk, where the woman behind it greeted him with a smile so rehearsed it bordered on artificial.
The sight of it left a faintly sour taste in his mouth.
Well, it didn't matter.
"Good afternoon, sir. Was our shooting range up to your standards?"
Lu Song shrugged.
The receptionist's smile faltered for the briefest second at his indifference, then snapped back into place, just as polished as before. She tapped a few keys on her monitor, her practiced cheer returning like a script she'd memorized.
"Everything seems in order. Will you be booking another session soon, sir?"
Lu Song simply replied, "Maybe."
Her hands froze for a moment over the keyboard, as if expecting more. When none came, she cleared her throat lightly and reached for the sign-out form. He scrawled his name without bothering to make it legible, then pushed the clipboard back toward her.
"Thank you for visiting!" says the receptionist with a voice as bright as a neon.
Nightingale gave a curt nod and turned on his heel.
The glass doors hissed open, and the outside world spilled in. Car horns, distant chatter, accompanied by the metallic scent of rain beginning to fall on asphalt. The air was cooler than inside, cutting through the lingering tang of gunpowder clinging to his clothes.
He stood at the curb for a moment, the cases dangling from his hands, and let the noise of the city wrap around him. Slowly, his mind seemed to wander into a different reality.
Buzz! Buzz!
Out of nowhere, his phone buzzed inside his pocket and snapped him out from his reverie.
Nightingale pulled it out and unlocked it without delay. A single new message waited at the top of the list.
— Ænonymous: [Your package is ready, Sir.]
He blinked.
Wait… it's ready already? I thought I'd have to wait a few more days, but these guys are quicker than I expected. In that case, I'll need to speed up my plans.
Nightingale slid the phone back into his pocket, adjusted his grip on the cases, and started walking.