J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [72]
As talk sprang up like a gusty wind, John dragged his backpack onto the table. At least they weren’t doing any physical training. As it was, getting his sorry ass out of this chair and down to the range was going to be enough of a production.
The shooting range was located behind the gym, and on the way there it was hard not to notice how Qhuinn and Blay flanked him tight as bodyguards. John’s ego hated it, but the practical side of him was grateful. Every step of the way he could feel Lash’s stare, and it was like having a lit stick of dynamite in your back pocket.
Zsadist was waiting at the range’s steel door, and as he opened it he said, “Line up against the wall, ladies.”
John followed the others in and settled back against the whitewashed concrete. The place was built along the lines of a shoe box, all long and thin, and it had more than a dozen shooting booths facing outward. The targets were shaped like heads and torsos and hung from tracks stretching down the ceiling. From the master station each one could be manipulated remotely to vary distance or provide movement.
Lash was the last trainee in, and he marched to the end of the line with his head up high, like he knew he was going to kick ass with a pistol. He didn’t look anyone in the eye. Except for John.
Zsadist shut the door, then frowned and went for the cell phone on his hip.
“Excuse me.” He went over to a corner and talked on the RAZR then came back, seeming pale. “Change of instructor. Wrath is going to take over tonight.”
A split second later, like the king had dematerialized to the door, Wrath came in.
He was bigger even than Zsadist and dressed in black leathers and a black shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. He and Z talked for a moment; then the king clasped the Brother’s shoulder and squeezed like he was offering reassurance.
Bella, John thought. This had to be about Bella and the pregnancy. Shit, he hoped everything was okay.
Wrath shut the door after Z left, then stood in front of the class, crossing his tattooed forearms over his chest and spreading his stance. As he looked the eleven trainees over, he seemed as impenetrable as what John was leaning against.
“Weapon tonight is the nine-millimeter autoloader. The term semiautomatic for these handguns is a misnomer. You will be using Glocks.” He reached behind to the small of his back and took out a lethal piece of black metal. “Note that the safety on these weapons is on the trigger.”
He reviewed the specs of the gun and the bullets as two doggen came forward rolling a cart the size of a hospital gurney. Eleven guns of the exact same make and model were laid out on top, and next to each was a clip.
“Tonight we work on stance and aim.”
John stared at the guns. He was willing to bet he was going to suck at shooting, just like he sucked at every other aspect of training. Anger spiked, making his head pound even worse.
Just once he’d like to find something he was good at. Just. Once.
Chapter Sixteen
As the patient stared at her funny, Jane did a quick check of her clothes, wondering if anything was hanging out.
“What,” she muttered as she kicked her foot and her pant leg slid back down.
She didn’t really have to ask, though. Hard-asses like him usually didn’t appreciate women doing the crying thing, but assuming that was the case, he was going to have to suck it up. Anyone would be having trouble in her shoes. Anyone.
Except instead of saying anything about the weakness of weepers in general or of her in particular, he picked the plate of chicken up off the tray and started to eat.
Disgusted with him and the whole situation, she went back to her chair. Losing the razor had taken the starch out of her covert rebellion, and in spite of the fact that she was a fighter by nature, she was resigned to a waiting game. If they were going to kill her outright, they would have; the issue now was the exit. She prayed there was one coming soon. And that it didn’t involve a funeral director and a coffee can full of