Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
"This is what I believe all three of us would have created years ago if we'd been allowed the proper funding," Natalia says with a dry little smile. "Fortunately, the Turgenev Bratva has provided that. Do you know the phrase, ghost guns?"
I nod. "I know that there was a lot of fanfare about them initially. They'd be untraceable, no serial numbers. It didn't seem like the technology took off, though."
"Exactly," she says, nodding approvingly. "The problem was in the polymers, you see. The compound can bind correctly to give you almost the strength of steel with recalibrations of the initial designs of the plan. We've expanded now from revolvers to nearly perfecting our rifle design."
"The first of the new series, the Turgenev G1 is ready to begin production," Vadim says.
His pale eyes are gleaming with pride, I know his family lay a huge amount of responsibility on his shoulders to make this work. Squeezing his hand, I whisper, "Thank you for letting me be here to see this."
The room is filled with the roar of the industrial-sized fans and a series of high-pitched whines, musical hums and something that sounds like an old-fashioned dial-up modem.
The monitor panel on the closest printer shows the 3D model of what the gun will look like when it's finished.
It's fascinating, watching these components fitted into place, layer by layer, until the model is filled with the actual weapon.
"Once the 3D printed pieces are finished, they're assembled, fitted with the necessary metal parts," Natalia explains, walking us into the next room, and then, you have the finished product and it is a work of art." Two handguns are placed in a case next to a guard, who opens it for us.
Vadim picks one up, hefting it to feel the weight.
He flattens his palm and spins the gun then holds it up.
"Weight disperses perfectly," he says. "Balance is good.
" When his finger slides into the trigger guard and he sights a target, the poor employees around that area quickly edge away, even though they know the gun isn't loaded yet.
"Would you like to hold it?" Vadim holds the gun out to me.
"I don't want to just hold it; I want target practice with this. It's amazing." I hold it up, admiring the grip, the dark shining surface that looks like steel to me.
"Very well," he nods. "Ballistics are next."
I've never known if my father was aware I knew how to fire a gun.
Or if he just didn't care, but he never stopped me.
I practiced regularly all through my teens and into my twenties.
It was one of the few things that made me feel like the bits of me chipped away during the kidnapping were slowly being added back.
"How good are you?" Vadim asks, eyeing me with interest.
"With a handgun? Good," I allow myself a small, pleased smile. "Rifles are not my strength, though my instructor at the gun range said I had a good eye for distance."
"Is this instructor male or female?"
I give a little chuckle, until I look up and see his face is like stone. "My darling," I stand on tiptoe, daringly whispering the words, hoping he'll accept them. "The last place anyone is going to hit on me is when I'm holding a loaded weapon."
The three women behind us laugh, as does Ivan.
Vadim's lips pressed together as if it would be unseemly to laugh in front of his crew.
Still, I count it as a win. The second printer has finished with another handgun, and he takes me into a separate room.
It's surprisingly long, the targets set so back that I can barely see the details.
"The gun range here is well set up," I say. "Though it makes sense, there must be so much testing involved before you can ship out the guns."
We load our clips together. Ivan is leaning against one of the shooting booths, and I feel guilty. "Ivan," I say, offering my gun to him. "Why don't you go first?"
Ivan gives Vadim a quick glance before he laughs, shaking his head. "I've served your husband for many years. I still think he would kill me if I took this opportunity away from you.'
"Oh, he wouldn't kill you," I say. We both look at Vadim. "He really wouldn't." I sound less convinced.
The gun, though. It's seated perfectly in my hand and the balance is good, a little lighter than a standard handgun, but not by much.
Ivan hands Vadim and me ear protection, and then we sight our targets.
I watch jealously as he pushes a button, sending his paper target almost double the distance from mine.
"Show off," I mumble. He ignores me.
"Ready?" he asks. We raise our guns together. "Three, two, one."
The pistol comes alive in my hands. No aggressive kick back. Just a smooth pull of the trigger and the bullet soars towards the target hitting perfectly, center mass, right over the heart.
"Well done," Vadim whispers, his breath puffing in my ear, making me shiver. Another push of the button and both targets return to pause in front of the firing booths, and my mouth drops open.
There's a neat, round circle on his target. Four bullet holes. In the head. "You fired four bullets in the time it took me to fire one?" I ask incredulously.
Vadim eyes his target expressionlessly, then turns to mine, looking at it with pride.
"Well done, wife." He lifts his hand, running his thumb gently over my lips, his usual polar blue eyes are warm.
I want to go up on tiptoe and kiss him, slip my fingers into his hair and grab a fistful...
Remembering just in time that we have an audience, I sigh and step back.
At home, then. The minute we get home I am attacking him like a starving man attacks a prime rib dinner.