Chương 8: Blacklisted and Approved

Yesterday turned into a full blown survival marathon. Mr. Parker drove me across the shooting range until deep into the night, as if trying to squeeze every last drop out of me or find even the tiniest crack in my technique. I fired at targets point blank, shifted to mid range, then pushed out to long distance.

It felt like he had repositioned the full height silhouettes into every conceivable and inconceivable angle, changing the lighting, forcing me to shoot from awkward stances, all just to prove one thing to himself: I was not just getting lucky. However, [Trainer] automatically corrected every single movement, embedding them into muscle memory. Unable to catch me in either deception or gaps, he still issued me a certificate, almost audibly grinding his teeth in the process. After just one day of training.

The document itself looked impressive though: bright, refined, with an embossed logo and a unique identification number that could be verified at any time on the official website. I turned it over in my hands, feeling a cold sense of satisfaction spreading inside me. Another step toward the goal. While ordinary teenagers try to pump up their biceps for summer to look good on the beach, at thirty two I was methodically turning myself into a killing machine.

With age, priorities tend to gain a very different kind of weight. Back home, before sleep, I spent a long time scrolling through pages online, greedily absorbing information. Videos about rare calibers, disassembly schemes of old pistols, ballistic tables of ammunition, everything flashed before my eyes. Then I caught a strange sensation: just from watching, my internal skill was growing. There were no system notifications, yet I could literally feel it through my skin.

If someone handed me a heavy German Mauser from World War One right now, I would handle it no worse than a Glock. I could not find a logical explanation for it yet, but I made a mental note: this needed to be tested in practice. My brain now worked like a sponge, soaking up lethal knowledge. Morning started according to the already established routine. Breakfast number one: an entire bucket of tuna with chicken. Food no longer brought pleasure, it was just biological fuel.

Workout: an exhausting cycle for every muscle group at the gym near my house. I could feel the fibers tearing and rebuilding, becoming denser. Breakfast number two: another portion of protein madness. Unfortunately, the coveted stat increase window did not appear. Still, I did not allow myself to slack off, there was plenty of time before conscription, and my body was already operating at the limit of human capability. By lunchtime, I parked at the shooting club again. The receptionist greeted me with an icy stare.

The smiles I was supposedly paying good money for had vanished completely. Apparently, after yesterday's arguments about the cost of every single piece of paper, she had firmly placed me into the category of hopeless cheapskates. Fine by me. I did not need her grin, as long as the certificates were issued without delays. Mr. Parker showed up shortly after I arrived. His face carried a mix of irritation and some deeper kind of disgust.

Yesterday, during our introduction, he still tried to maintain professional neutrality, but today he greeted me through clenched teeth. It felt like I had personally killed his beloved dog, dishonored his only daughter, and then topped it off by sacrilegiously relieving myself on his family carpet. My rapid progress had clearly bruised his veteran ego. We stepped onto the firing line again. The air was thick with the smell of burnt powder and heated metal.

"So, Mr. Ross, yesterday we concluded the basic shooting course," he grimaced as if from a toothache.

"Today we move on to rapid fire. I see you purchased and are wearing a tactical holster from our shop. A reasonable decision." I gave a faint, almost sympathetic smile. That holster had cost me fifty dollars, even though every forum says a piece of stiff leather for five holds a gun just as well. But the club rules were uncompromising: either you buy their branded gear or you are not allowed into training under the pretext of safety.

Another clean little scam, but I needed their flashy diploma, so I swallowed the insult.

"Listen and watch carefully, Ross. I will not repeat myself." Parker began the lecture. He talked about shifting the center of gravity, about how you need to drive your feet into the ground to create an unshakable base and efficiently absorb recoil. He explained at what angle to lock the elbow so the joint would not give out after a rapid series of shots. Then he demonstrated. The movement was almost invisible to the eye. Like a seasoned cowboy straight out of a western, he yanked the pistol from the holster.

Three dry, sharp cracks merged into what sounded like a single continuous shot. Three targets at different distances gained neat holes precisely in the center of the bullseye. It was damn impressive. In that moment, I felt a pure, primal thrill. I wanted that power. I wanted to be able to neutralize three opponents in a single second, leaving them no chance. Not to become some maniac, no.

Just that every normal man wants to know that if a threat appears, he can protect himself and those he cares about before the enemy even has time to blink.

"Care to try, Mr. Ross?" Parker forced the words out as if he were being made to drink vinegar.

"Of course." The moment my fingers touched the grip, the world shifted again. Invisible threads, as if extending from my brain, gently pulled at my muscles, correcting my stance into an absolute, mathematically precise ideal. [Attention! Specific physical activity of the familiar detected] The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. [Trainer presence adjusting micromovements for peak efficiency] I did not think. I simply let it happen. A snap.

My hand found the grip on its own, my finger settled on the trigger at the exact fraction of a second when the front sight aligned with the target. Bang! Bang! Bang! The three casings had not even hit the concrete floor yet, and the pistol had already slipped back into the holster with a quiet click. Three targets. Three bullseyes. My pulse was steady, my breathing calm, as if I had not just performed a small ballistic miracle, but merely moved a cup across a table.

Parker froze, slowly lowering the hand holding the stopwatch.

"So, what do you say, Mr. Parker?" I turned to him, still feeling the pleasant tingling in my fingers from the recoil and unable to suppress a triumphant smile. The euphoria of my own power surged through my blood like pure adrenaline.

"I would say today's quota is more than covered. Is that enough to settle the certificate in a single day?" But instead of the expected approval, reluctant or not, I ran into a wall of pure, concentrated fury. Parker's face flushed dark red, a vein bulged on his neck, and his eyes narrowed into icy slits.

"You know what I will say, Mr. Ross?" he spat the words, stepping toward me.

"I will say that you are a petty fraud and a pathological liar. You told me to my face that you had never held a real firearm before, yet you handle it like a top tier shooting instructor. You clearly spent years in brutal training, and now you are mocking me with this cheap performance about some unbelievable talent." He took a breath, but his anger only intensified.

"I am officially expelling you from this club. Right now. More than that, I will personally call every colleague I have in this state and beyond. I will make sure your name becomes a blacklist mark. You will not be allowed into any respectable shooting range again, Mr. Ross. Get out." Whoa. That was harsh. For a moment, I actually felt uneasy. That kind of sincere hatred in the eyes of a professional soldier could pierce through any armor. But I did not step back or start making excuses.

I had been ready for this scenario. After all, only a naive fool would expect that abnormal progress would not raise suspicion in a professional who is used to earning everything through sweat and blood. While I was driving here, I spent a solid hour racking my brain, trying to come up with a story that would satisfy Parker. Then it suddenly hit me: I am not some teenage comic book hero who has to hide everything and fight the world alone.

I am an adult with resources and, more importantly, the right numbers in my phone.

"Wait one minute, Mr. Parker," I calmly interrupted his angry tirade.

"Do not jump to conclusions. Give me a chance to explain." I pulled out my phone and quickly dialed my handler.

"Hey, Danny. Hope I am not interrupting anything important?" From the other end of the line, cutting across Danny's voice, came bright children's laughter and some kind of domestic background noise. The contrast between that peaceful, almost idyllic scene and the tense atmosphere of the shooting range was nearly tangible.

"Well, a little, Tom," he replied, and I could practically picture him wiping his hands on a towel while pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear.

"But I always have time for you. What happened? You sound tense."

"Yeah, a minor complication. I am at a shooting course right now, and my instructor is, let's say, extremely unhappy with the pace of my progress. He is standing right in front of me and demanding a clear explanation, otherwise he promises me a permanent ban from every range in the country. I need help." A brief but heavy silence settled on the other end. I could feel Danny running through options in those few seconds, weighing the risks.

I was already bracing for a lecture about carelessness, but once again he proved why he had been assigned as my handler.

"Tom, listen carefully. Do not explain anything to him. Nothing at all," Danny's voice turned dry and unsettlingly businesslike.

"I am hanging up now. In three or four minutes, you will get a call. It will not be me. Just silently hand the phone to your instructor. Understood?"

"Understood," I replied as neutrally as possible, even though curiosity was already itching under my skin. Danny hung up. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked straight at Parker. He was drilling into me with a stare that mixed suspicion and contempt, like an old schoolteacher glaring at a cocky troublemaker trying to derail the lesson with another ridiculous story. The wait stretched painfully long, even though in reality no more than three minutes passed.

When my phone suddenly came alive, vibrating in my pocket, I actually flinched. The number was hidden. I answered and, without saying a word, held the phone out to Parker.

"This is for you, Mr. Parker. They are asking for you." The instructor gave a skeptical snort, but took the phone.

"Lieutenant Parker speaking," he said, clearly deciding to establish his status right away and put the prankster on the other end in their place. It did not work. I watched the transformation in real time, and it was fascinating. First Parker frowned, then his back straightened unnaturally, as if he had been hit by an electric shock. The blood slowly but steadily drained from his face, leaving it deathly pale.

"Yes, sir..." His voice, which had been ringing with steel just moments ago, now sounded subdued.

"No, sir. I... I did not know. My fault, sir. It will not happen again. Yes, sir. Understood, sir." When he ended the call, his hand was visibly trembling. He carefully handed the phone back to me as if it were a fragile glass object. Not a trace remained of his earlier arrogance or fury.

"Here is your phone, Mr. Ross," Parker swallowed, staring somewhere over my shoulder.

"Why did you not inform me from the start? I mean... your connections in the Pentagon. Though, I understand. Classified protocols, special directives. Not my place to question. My apologies for the harshness." I stood there, trying to process what I had just heard. What was he even talking about? The Pentagon? Who did he speak to? From the speaker I had only caught fragments, and I could swear the voice belonged to some very authoritative, dry old man, not Danny at all.

But questioning Parker would have been foolish. Why break such a perfect story that had formed in his head at exactly the right moment?

"Mr. Ross," he adjusted his belt, trying to regain what little dignity he could.

"You wanted to receive your rapid fire certification today? Of course, you will have it. More than that, considering your... exceptional abilities, I am ready to issue you clearances and certificates for all remaining courses in our club right now. No unnecessary formalities."

"That will not be necessary," I frowned, and Parker immediately drew his head in slightly.

"I paid good money for these courses, and I intend to complete them properly. I do not just need a piece of paper. I need your recommendations, professional tricks, and advice. I want to squeeze everything I can out of this training."

"Yes... yes, of course! Naturally!" he nodded with such enthusiasm as if I had just offered him a medal.

"Let us continue. Any range, any arsenal is at your disposal. I will issue the paperwork exactly when you say you are ready." The contrast in his behavior was almost comical. Just five minutes ago he had been a strict teacher who thought he had caught me in a prank, and now... he was still a teacher, but now the prankster had very serious and dangerous friends standing behind him, and the teacher was more than willing to overlook any of my antics as long as I left satisfied and caused him no trouble.

Still, I wondered who exactly Danny had connected him to. It seemed my handler was a far bigger figure than I had assumed.

"Shall we continue?" I nodded toward the targets.

"With great pleasure, Mr. Ross. With great pleasure."