By the ti he gathered all the drawings together, it was already Monday of the second week.
Takuya stretched, his joints cracking all over.
He turned to Bernard, who had just finished handling so business over the hotel phone.
"Bernard, take sowhere today."
"No problem, sir. Where to? Universal Studios or Disneyland?" Bernard hung up, thinking his boss was finally ready to relax.
"The shooting range."
Bernard's expression froze on his face.
"...Where?"
"The shooting range. A place to shoot guns," Takuya said casually. "I want a professional one, with a good variety of firearms."
Bernard opened his mouth, staring at Takuya's harmless-looking face, and finally squeezed out a sentence:
"Takuya… we're eting Mr. Clancy on Wednesday, not conducting tactical exercises with him. The diagrams you drew are already enough to knock him out."
"Of course, there's no need to go that far." Takuya patted his shoulder, smiling. "It's just that opportunities to play with this stuff in Japan are rare, and the selection isn't as complete as in the U.S. Since I'm here, I should enjoy it."
Hollywood didn't lack rich people, nor did it lack top-tier shooting ranges catering to them.
The place Bernard found was extrely private. The instructor was a tall, muscular forr U.S. Marine, stern and silent.
After explaining the grip and shooting fundantals of the Colt M1911, he stepped aside, watching with a professional, evaluating gaze.
Bang!
The heavy recoil jolted Takuya's wrist, and the bullet struck the edge of the target sheet.
Bernard laughed behind him.
"Takuya, it seems you're still better suited to using a pen."
Takuya worked his wrist a bit, ignored the teasing, and tried the Beretta 92F and a revolver.
After firing over a dozen rounds, he slowly found the rhythm, but his frown only grew deeper.
"Switch to a long gun," Takuya said to the instructor.
The instructor brought over an M16A2 assault rifle.
Following instructions, Takuya used the iron sights to painstakingly lock onto the target a hundred ters away. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A few shots later, the results were rely "barely acceptable."
"Too slow, and the field of view is terrible." Takuya lowered the rifle, shaking his head.
The instructor raised an eyebrow, feeling the comnt was unprofessional.
"Kid, this is how armies around the world train. If you want accuracy, you practice."
"No. I an the aiming thod itself is flawed."
Takuya looked at him seriously. "To align that tiny front sight, your entire attention gets locked onto it. You can't observe anything else around you. On a battlefield, that's fatal."
The instructor froze. It was the first ti he'd heard a custor analyze it from this angle.
Takuya turned to the range manager.
"Do you have rifles with electronic sights here? Red dots or sothing similar."
The manager and instructor exchanged shocked looks.
Red dot sights were rare, expensive high-tech gear at the ti—normally used only by competition shooters or a few special forces units.
"We have a competition-modified AR-15 equipped with a Swedish-made red dot sight," the manager said.
"Let try it."
When the rifle with the thick, tube-shaped red dot sight was handed to Takuya, Bernard curiously leaned over.
"What's so different about this thing?"
"An entire era."
Takuya raised the rifle—this ti without closing one eye. Both eyes stayed open.
In his field of view, a bright red dot instantly landed on the target center.
He barely needed any adjustnt before pulling the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots—fast and seamless.
The scoring machine beeped: all five hits were within the nine-ring zone or better.
The instructor's mouth slowly fell open. Monts ago he had been ready to lecture this young man, but the kid had just given him a lesson instead.
"See?" Takuya lowered the still-smoking rifle. Like an engineer analyzing a product, he explained to Bernard, "This is the future. Fast target acquisition, full peripheral vision, point-and-shoot."
He ran his fingers along the mounting rail beneath the sight—the Weaver rail.
A term flashed across his mind:
Picatinny Rail.
A standardized modular platform that allowed mounting laser designators, tactical lights, vertical grips—anything.
He morized the idea, burying it deep in the vault of future "golden opportunities."
"Coach, anything else? I want to try sothing older." Takuya set down the rifle, still hungry for more.
The instructor nodded and took down a long, wooden-stocked rifle polished to a warm shine.
"Winchester M1894. The classic lever-action rifle. The romance of the Old West."
Takuya took it—heavier than expected.
Imitating what he'd seen in movies, he awkwardly worked the lever. The brass casing popped out with a crisp sound, and a fresh round slid into the chamber.
The chanism felt wonderfully chanical—completely unlike the cold efficiency of the M16.
"Hey, Takuya, planning to audition for a Western movie?" Bernard teased.
Takuya smiled without answering.
He raised the rifle, aid at a steel plate fifty ters away, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The sound was deep, the recoil gentle.
Without pausing, he lifted his finger, hooked all four right-hand fingers around the lever, pushed down, then pulled back.
Ka-chak!
The entire motion was fluid—much smoother than the first ti.
In his mind, he saw Arthur Morgan hunting in the snowy mountains.
Primitive, reliable—each shot precious. Sothing no assault rifle could replicate.
"Bring a shotgun."
The instructor carried over a Remington 870.
"Twelve-gauge buckshot. At close range, it's God."
Takuya accepted the rugged-looking weapon and racked the pump, producing the iconic "clack-clack."
He didn't even bother aiming—just roughly pointed toward the target.
Boom!
A thunderous blast shook the entire shooting booth. The huge recoil slamd into his shoulder, and the target sheet instantly grew a dense cluster of holes.
Takuya felt nothing but satisfaction. He pumped the shotgun quickly—eject, chamber—and fired again.
He savored the raw destructive power, imagining a cramped hallway where any enemy facing this thing would know only despair.
This must be what John Wick felt in the catacombs—one shot, one kill, unstoppable.
Setting the hot shotgun onto the table, Takuya rubbed his numb shoulder, pleased.
The instructor approached, genuinely impressed.
"Sir, you learn fast. We have a full tactical course out back—indoor CQB simulation, moving targets, hostage targets. Want to run a tid course?"
Bernard perked up too.
"Sounds fun! Takuya, how about showing off?"
Takuya shook his head with a smile.
"Feeling the chanics is enough. That battlefield belongs to professionals like you."
He knew static shooting and moving under pressure were two entirely different worlds.
His few minutes of experience were enough to pose for the range, but a real run would only make him look foolish.
No need.
When they stepped out of the range, Bernard was still buzzing from the gunfire.
"Alright, you've shot guns and gotten it out of your system. Tomorrow you will relax, right?"
"No problem. You decide—just nothing too intense," Takuya said, hands open.
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