Page 1 of Grim

Chapter 1

Grim

The Saints’ shooting range sat on the far edge of town, wedged between a line of pines and an abandoned freight road. At dusk, the place almost looked peaceful. Targets lined the tree line. The gravel still held the day’s heat. The air hung thick with gun oil and dust.

Grim stood at the edge of the firing line, arms crossed, boots planted wide, watching the four prospects set up. The last of the paying customers had cleared out twenty minutes ago, leaving only the Saints and the fading light.

Rook stood beside him, clipboard in hand, posture relaxed, eyes razor-sharp. VP mode. Instructor mode. The version of Rook the public trusted was steady, competent, calm, not the man who could break someone’s jaw without raising his voice.

Brick adjusted his stance for the third time, jaw tight, shoulders locked.

Vandal smirked at his reflection in the rental booth glass, spinning his pistol once until Grim’s stare cut him off.

Ghost checked his weapon with quiet precision, expression unreadable, movements efficient.

Switchblade moved with calm, methodical ease, the kind Grim recognized in men who’d lived through hell and learned to breathe through it.

Rook called out, “Prospects ready.”

Brick nodded once. Switchblade didn’t react. Ghost blinked. Vandal winked at his target.

Grim’s gaze dragged down the line — stance, grip, focus — then stopped on Switchblade’s boots.

“Fix your laces,” Grim said. “Left one’s crooked.”

Switchblade glanced down, barely a twitch of annoyance. “Doesn’t change my aim.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Grim said. “Fix it.”

Switchblade bent, quick and efficient.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth threatened it.

Grim stepped forward, boots crunching over gravel. “You’re not here to show off,” he said, voice low. “You’re here to learn. You learn by shutting up and paying attention.”

Brick straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Rook muttered, “Better.”

Grim raised his hand. “Five rounds. Controlled. On my call.”

The range fell silent. The cicadas quieted. Even the wind held its breath.

“Fire.”

Four shots cracked through the air, sharp and controlled as they echoed off the trees.

Brick’s first round went wide. Vandal’s grouping was sloppy. Ghost’s was tight. Switchblade’s was perfect.

Grim walked the line, eyes scanning targets.

Brick’s target looked like it had been attacked by a drunk squirrel.

“Brick,” Grim muttered, “what the hell was that?”

Brick exhaled through his nose. “Pulled too early. Won’t happen again.”

Better. Not defensive. Not whining. Just determined.