Page 38 of Bratva Menace

Releasing a sigh that I made sure was loud as fuck so he could hear it, I picked up the Glock first, aimed⁠—

“Disassemble,” he barked.

I gave him an incredulous look. Fucking seriously? Fine. Keeping my eyes on him, I disassembled the gun with practiced ease, not looking away from him once as I unclicked and took apart each piece, one at a time, placing them down on the bench. Then, without waiting for prompting, I put it all back together just as fast, turned slightly, and⁠—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

I didn’t stop until I emptied the entire fucking clip into the target. Once it was empty, I ejected the clip, slapped in another one, adjusted to the target on my right, and fired again and again.

As soon as the bullets ran out, I switched the Glock for the Luger and did the whole thing again, disassembling and reassembling it all in the span of thirty seconds before taking aim and firing all the bullets in the clips at the targets in front of me.

I didn’t slow down. I didn’t stop. I went headfirst into the MP-446 Viking, taking it apart, putting it back together, and unloading all the bullets without an ounce of hesitation, my aim fucking perfect.

Aleksandr watched me, eyes as critical as ever as he studied my every single move.

When the final bullet left the MP-446 Viking, smoke billowing into the air from the barrel, I straightened, slammed the gun back down onto the bench, and faced my brother head-on.

“Satisfied?”

The bastard, of course, didn’t answer me. He pressed the big red button on the pole next to him. The targets shot forward from their spots all the way across the field, thanks to the metal track they were on, and stopped right in front of us. He inspected each target closely, seeing exactly where each of the bullets landed.

Most of them where bullseyes because I was a good fucking shot. There was a stray one here or there that went somewhere else. Sometimes, I liked to mix it up a little. Some of them had shots in the stomach because a gunshot wound to the stomach was painful as shit, and sometimes, you didn’t want your opponent to just straight up die. You wanted to be able to interrogate them and ask questions before they died. A couple of the others had a few shots to the groin because…well…I was evil.

Aleksandr inspected each one closely. Methodically. With the eyes of someone actively looking for a mistake.

Irritation flashed through me, and I gritted my teeth to refrain from speaking my mind.

After what felt like thirty fucking minutes, he finally gave a stiff nod, pushed the button again, and the targets flew back to their designated spots.

I thought it was over. I hoped it was over, but of course, I should have known better. Aleksandr was on a mission, and when my brother had his mind set on something, nothing got in his way. Nothing stopped him.

He picked up the three handguns, deposited them on the bench beside him, and replaced them with an M16 assault rifle.

I rolled my eyes. Here we fucking go.

He flicked the lever underneath the button on the pole. Dozens of targets popped up across the field in a random, sporadic frenzy, impossible to anticipate. I picked up the assault rifle, checked it over quickly before hiking it up, my hold perfect, the heel of the gun tucked tightly into the crease of my shoulder, and fired.

Targets sprang up, one after the other after the other, all across the field. Sometimes, one at a time. Sometimes, two or three, spread out over a distance, forcing me to shoot and adjust my aim with sharp pivots left and right.

Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!

It was easy. As if I wasn’t even in control of my own body, the muscle memory from years of doing that exact same exercise taking over and guiding my aim.

I blinked, and the whole thing was over, the magazine—filled with thirty rounds—completely empty. I ejected the empty mag, took the assault rifle apart, placing all the pieces down onto the bench as I went, and then turned to face my brother.

“Are we done now, or do you want to go check my shots?”

He went to check.

The dick.

Aleksandr knew I was being sarcastic. But he was testing me for God only knew what reason, and that testing involved checking if all my shots had hit their marks.

I leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over my chest, absolutely stewing in the angry and negative emotions circling inside me.

He’s just looking out for you. He’s just looking out for you. He’s just⁠—

“You missed one,” Aleksandr yelled out from the middle of the field.