Chapter 42 The Gun
EMILY
Stripping a lethal weapon down to its bare bones is surprisingly similar to analyzing a complex chemical compound. Both require absolute precision, a steady hand, and the understanding that a single misplaced element can cause the entire system to blow up in your face.
When I finished admiring all the secret places and rooms and tunnels the Wolfe’s have, Leo reminded me that we were here to practice and now that’s what you’re doing.
The custom Night Wind pistol sits on the stainless steel workbench, its matte black surface reflecting the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above. The basement room smells of heavy gun oil, metallic solvent, and the damp limestone of the cellar walls.
Leo now stands across from me, his massive, stone-like frame perfectly still in his dark security uniform. His closely cropped hair shows the rugged line of his scalp, and his square jaw moves slowly as he begins the lesson. He picks up the weapon with his large, calloused hands, making the heavy frame look like a toy.
"This is the slide," Leo says, pointing a thick index finger to the top metal housing. "It contains the firing pin and the extractor. Below it is the receiver, which holds your trigger mechanism and the magazine well."
He moves down the weapon with practiced ease, explaining the exact purpose of the barrel, the guide rod, and the tightly coiled recoil spring. His voice is a steady, rhythmic baritone that echoes off the reinforced concrete walls. He doesn’t use unnecessary words. He treats the mechanical anatomy with the same cold respect a doctor would give to the chambers of a human heart.
The moment his explanation ends, his fingers blur into motion. With a series of sharp, rhythmic clicks, he strips the slide, drops the barrel, removes the spring, and lays the pieces out in a perfect, neat line on the table. Before I can even count to three, his hands move again. The pieces slide back together, locking with a loud, metallic snap that rings through the quiet room.
A sudden surge of hot adrenaline courses through my veins. The sheer speed of the assembly makes my fingertips tingle with a reckless desire to master it. If I can memorize the precise molecular structures for a world-class cardiology formula, I can certainly master a machine made of simple steel. This is my survival now. I can’t always rely on Alistair to step in front of a falling cane or have shaking hands when I need to pull a trigger on a frozen lakeshore. To protect this baby and secure the independent future I’m building with Dr. Aris, I need to become my own weapon.
"Your turn," Leo says, sliding the intact pistol back toward my edge of the table. "Take it apart."
I grab the grip, the textured polymer scratchy against my skin. I try to pull back the slide to engage the takedown lever, just as I saw him do. My fingers are slightly slick from the thin layer of oil on the metal. The slide spring is incredibly stiff, resisting my strength. I pull harder, my boots bracing against the concrete floor, but my thumb slips off the release catch.
"Keep your thumb high," Leo instructs, his large hand reaching out to steady my wrist. "Don’t fight the spring. Use your palm to drive the metal back."
I adjust my grip, pressing the meat of my palm against the rear serrations. I pull back with a sharp grunt, finally catching the lever. The slide comes free, but as I try to lift the barrel, it jams against the frame. My brow furrows, a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down my temple. I try to force it, but the metal grinds unpleasantly. Leo patiently guides my fingers, showing me how to tilt the assembly to clear the feeding ramp.
By the time the five core pieces are finally resting on the steel table, my breath is coming in short hitches. I look at Leo’s digital stopwatch. Three minutes. It feels like an eternity compared to his lightning-fast demonstration.
"Now put it back together," Leo says, stepping back to let me work.
I pick up the heavy receiver, my mind rapidly scrolling through the visual map I made during his lecture. The barrel goes in first, dropping into the slide with a clean clink. Next is the recoil spring. I grab the coiled steel rod and press it against the locking notch under the barrel.
I push it forward, but the spring feels awkward in my hands. I force it down into the groove and attempt to slide the entire upper assembly back onto the frame. The metal tracks align, but when I try to rack the slide to lock it, the mechanism jams solid halfway down the receiver. It refuses to budge.
"Look at the guide rod," Leo says, leaning over the table to inspect my work. "The flat base of the recoil spring is facing the muzzle. You installed it backward."
A hot flush of frustration colors my cheeks. I pull the slide off, compress the stiff spring with my thumb, and flip it around. This time, the rod sits flush against the barrel lug. I slide the assembly onto the frame once more, and it moves smoothly, locking into place with a crisp, satisfying clack. I check the clock on the table. Five minutes.
I drop my arms to my sides, my shoulders slumping as a wave of discouragement washes over me. "Eight minutes total just to prepare the weapon. If Julian’s goon or Beatrice’s bodyguards cornered me with this speed, I’d be finished before the first clip was loaded."
Leo’s square face softens just a fraction, a small, encouraging nod tilting his head. "Everyone handles the metal like a clumsy child the first time, Mrs. Wolfe. Your fingers don’t have the muscle memory yet. Proficiency doesn’t come from talent. It comes from doing it until your hands can do it in the dark. Try again."
His calm demeanor cuts through my frustration. I set my jaw, my fingers gripping the cold slide once more. I refuse to give up. I will master this mechanical puzzle until it becomes as natural as breathing.
The metallic clanging of steel components echoes continuously through the basement for the next two hours. The cellar remains exceptionally cool and quiet, completely isolated from the scorching midday heat baking the estate grounds above. The thick concrete walls block out every shred of outside noise, creating a sterile environment where the only reality is the weight of the gun and the numbers on the stopwatch.
My thumbs are raw, the skin red and tender from the constant friction against the slide catch. A dark smudge of black grease coats the side of my palm and my index finger.
But my time is dropping. Two minutes. Ninety seconds. Sixty seconds.
I’m about to reach for the receiver to start another cycle when a large hand gently covers the metal parts, stopping my movement.
"That’s enough for this morning, Miss Emily," Leo says, picking up the black polymer holster from the bench and placing the pistol inside. "It’s past noon. Time for lunch."
"Just one more time," I say, my fingers twitching toward the table. "I can get the assembly under forty seconds if I just smooth out the spring alignment."
"The boss gave strict orders, Miss Emily," Leo replies, his voice firm as he locks the storage drawer. "The training cannot cause unnecessary physical strain or exhaustion. You’re carrying the Wolfe heir, ma’am. We don’t risk the baby’s health for a stopwatch."
The mention of Alistair’s mandate brings me back to reality. I look down at my stomach, taking a deep breath to calm the lingering adrenaline. He’s right. I can’t let my desire for strength harm the child. I weigh the options in my head, nod obediently, and wipe my greasy hands on a clean rag.
I follow Leo out of the dynamic wing, our boots sounding a steady rhythm against the concrete floor. We pass the dark, silent corridor leading to the right side of the cellar. I think of Beatrice sitting in the pitch blackness of the Meditation Room just a few dozen yards away, completely severed from the world. The thought gives me a quiet sense of peace as we step onto the service elevator.
The lift opens into the bright, lavish interior of the main mansion. The sudden transition from the dim, cool basement to the sunlit luxury of the upper floors makes me squint against the light.
The rich, savory aroma of roasted rosemary chicken and garlic potatoes wafts through the hallway, instantly making my stomach rumble.
We walk into the main dining area, and I freeze near the threshold.
The entire Wolfe family elders are gathered around the long mahogany table. Celia sits at the head, her silver hair pinned back into a flawless, regal bun, her sharp eyes scanning a porcelain bowl of soup. Martha sits to her right, her tailored silk blouse looking immaculate, while Arthur Wolfe Sr. sits opposite her, checking a gold watch on his wrist with a characteristic expression of arrogance. Little Lily is there too, her small fingers gripping a silver fork as she happily swings her legs from her elevated chair.
Oh dear. Everything has been so hectic in this house that I have forgotten that these people eat. Not just eat, but they eat together. At the same time.
The family meal is in full swing, and my sudden entrance in grease-stained jeans and an oversized jacket draws every eye in the room straight to me.