Chapter Thirty-Seven
Asher takes us down to the basement, where he has an almost unimaginable arsenal of weapons stockpiled in a vault.
The vault itself, hidden behind a nondescript bookshelf, is made of cold, unyielding steel.
Its interior is a chaotic array of lethal tools.
Steel shelves lined with sleek rifles and handguns.
Blades of every size and shape glint menacingly from their mounts, while crates of explosives sit ominously against the walls.
It looks as though Asher is entangled in his own shadowy dealings—or perhaps preparing to single handedly fight World War III.
“Cozy,” Seamus remarks. “Any chance you can explain why you’ve got so many weapons, mate?”
“Call me mate again and find out what it’s like to live without precious limbs,” Asher says flatly. “As for the weapons… well. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
“Surprised you don’t have a section for crayons,” Seamus quips with a sly grin.
Asher glowers at him but doesn’t respond.
“What if we had Sergei meet us here?” I suggest. “He could have his pick.” I look at Asher. “If you’re okay with it.”
Asher shrugs. “I’m not against currying favor with Sergei Novikov. Especially when he means to finally end the people who got away with hurting you.” His jaw tightens. “I should’ve done that a long time ago.”
“You couldn’t do it alone,” I say. “You were outnumbered three dozen to one.”
“I’ve fought worse odds and lived,” Asher tells me, a note of sorrow in his tone.
There’s turmoil swimming in his eyes, accompanied by a wealth of regret.
I release Dorian and wrap my arms around Asher, hugging him again.
That should’ve been another giveaway in my youth; I was never big on hugs or anything touchy-feely, but I always enjoyed the warmth and strength of Asher’s embrace.
If I’d paid attention, I would’ve seen the signs everywhere.
“Thank you for having my back and doing what you could,” I murmur. “I’m angry that I didn’t know sooner, but glad I know now.”
I don’t know what this means for the future—I have no clue how my relationship with Asher will change or evolve, if it will. But my gut tells me that he’s going to start showing up a lot more, and I am more than okay with that.
Asher gives me a strong squeeze. “I’ll always watch your six, kid. Especially when you choose to shack up with danger.”
“At least it’s a good kind of danger.”
“I’m starting to see that.” Asher steps back, and I notice a glimmer of moisture in his eyes.
He quickly blinks it away; his face hardens.
“Right. Tell Novikov I’m welcoming a rendezvous here.
I’ll close down shop and cancel all appointments for the next few days so we aren’t disturbed.
What time’s the big boss coming to town? ”
“Late,” Dorian responds. “Eight or nine, maybe ten.”
Asher nods. “Fine.”
“I’ll be leaving to case Silving soon and get a headcount of how many men we’ll be up against,” Seamus informs.
“First, I want to see you shoot,” Asher says.
“I’m not loaning out my guns to little boys who don’t know how to handle their weapons.
Show me that you can.” He jerks his head at the vault walls.
“Each of you pick three—handgun, AR, and semi. Sniper rifle, if you want. Let’s take ‘em up to the range, and you can show me your skills.”
Connor frowns at Asher. “Us three? You’re not going to make your daughter shoot, as well? I’d have assumed you’d prioritize ensuring she knows how to handle her weapons.”
Hearing Connor refer to me as Asher’s daughter is a gut-punch, but it also feels fundamentally right. I am Asher’s daughter. I do have a father, and he’s a good man despite a complex past. I’m not alone. I never have been, even when I felt like it.
Asher rumbles out a scornful laugh. “She can outshoot you three in her sleep.”
Connor raises his eyebrows doubtfully, flicking me a dubious glance up and down. “She’s alright, from the little I’ve seen.”
“Then you haven’t seen much. Sweetheart,” Asher says with a nod to me, “Why don’t you pick out some guns, as well.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I want to show off to the legion and prove myself worthy. I also want to make Connor shit himself with surprise. I select a Glock, M16, and C15.
The shooting range upstairs is pretty typical.
There are twelve aisles, each about 200 yards.
The targets hang from adjustable automated pulley systems. Connor, Seamus, and Dorian all shoot first, showing off a pretty impressive skillset.
Seamus is the best shooter out of them, but they’re all very good.
There are bullseye’s all around, though only Seamus manages to fire off all his rounds dead center.
Connor turns to me with a condescending smirk after emptying his AR cartridge. “Your turn, greenie.”
Time to show off what Asher taught me when I was a teenager. I’m a bit out of practice, but Asher was always a brilliant and extremely strict teacher. He’d have me take apart and rebuild weapons until I could do it in under a minute, and made me practice shooting until my hands blistered.
My selected guns all rest over a towel on a steel table. I pick up the Glock first, empty the chamber, unload the gun, and take it apart to examine it, just like Asher taught me. My movements are swift, precise, and careful as I put it back together and reload it.
When I look up, Connor’s squinting at me with confusion, Seamus is watching me with interest, and Dorian is smiling at me with obvious pride. I feel a warm glow bathe my chest. These legionaries aren’t going to know what hit them.
“Target distance?” Asher asks.
“You choose.” No matter how far it is, I know I’ll hit it exactly how I want. Asher taught me very well, and shooting a gun is like riding a bike—it’s hard to forget the basics. After a while, everything just becomes instinct.
Asher sets the target to 100 yards. Maybe he’s worried that I’ve gotten rusty, and I’m all too happy to show him that I haven’t.
His lessons were my lifeline at a time. I remember the look of anguish he’d adopt every time I had to go home to Clyde—he looked like he was in genuine pain.
I’d attributed that to his remaining love for my mother, but maybe he loved me, as well.
All the men part as I step up to the window facing the range. I train my eyes on the target.
“Just because you can disassemble and reassemble a gun doesn’t mean you can shoot,” Connor mutters. “It’s not—”
He cuts off as I start firing. The target is in the shape of a man, so I hit all the relevant points.
From the fifteen bullets in the magazine, five go into his head, creating a burning hole in the center.
Five more are shot at vital organs in his torso.
The remaining five go into his crotch. Seamus winces.
When I’m done, I set the gun down and turn to Connor. “You were saying?”
His frown deepens. “The target was close.”
Without asking if I’m ready, Asher moves the target back to two hundred yards. I pick up the M16, check it for any faults, and get to work. The same result ensues; I hit every bullet in the designated bullseye.
The C15 is where I really shine—so much so that I decide to challenge myself by hitting the targets in neighboring lanes.
At the end of it, Connor’s staring at me with narrowed eyes and his arms crossed over his chest. Seamus looks at once repulsed and intrigued, as though he can’t look away even though he wants to.
Dorian watches me with a subtle smirk on his lips, his hands folded into his pockets.
Once I set down my weapon, he comes right over to me, wrapping his arms around me and planting a soft kiss on my lips.
“You never told me you were that good,” he murmurs.
“You never asked,” I retort.
He runs his bottom thumb over my lip. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll need to find a way to extract all your secrets from you.”
I smile. “For that, my friend, you’ll just have to wait patiently.”
“Friend?” Dorian growls.
“Lover,” I correct. “Better?”
“Alright, fuckbirds, that’s enough—you’re too sickening to look at,” Seamus says. He turns to Asher. “I’m off to Silving to case the place. Any hot spots I should look for?”
Asher promptly lists off several locations—trailer parks, diners, and of course, the infamous town brewery.
“I’ll be back in time for the rendezvous.”
“Sergei’s agreed to the change in location, on the condition that this place is safe from prying eyes, ears, and enemies. His men will thoroughly sweep the premise,” Connor says,
“The walls and windows are bulletproof, the doors are thick enough to be vaults, and anyone who tries to break in will find themselves in for some nasty surprises,” Asher grunts. “The police know better than to annoy me—I supply them with most of their weapons. I promise you it’s safe.”
Dorian insists on taking me out to lunch—I agree only when Asher retreats into his office, wanting to get through his work for the day.
We settle at a local spot—Pixiedust Diner.
The place has a retro 50’s vibe going on, with checkered floors, waitresses wearing short red dresses featuring flared skirts and aprons, and a jukebox in the corner.
Dorian and I take a booth along the left wall, which is decorated with a mixture of tasteful graffiti and colorful prints.
“What’s good here?” he asks, flipping through the menu.
Asher used to bring me here when I was younger, when I’d take the bus and walk to his shop just to get away from Clyde.
I lied to Clyde and told him I was going to some after-school activity, and the bastard never cared enough to double check.
I’m not sure if the food here is actually as delicious as I remember, or if I was so starved that it tasted amazing to my adolescent self.