Chapter 13. Target Practice
2734 Words
The massive mahogany double doors of Master August's suite clicked shut behind Mia, sealing the absolute, suffocating silence of the king's room away from the grand corridor. For a fleeting second, she let out a soft, shuddering breath, her fingers loosening their white-knuckled grip on the heavy plastic handle of her cleaning caddy. August's final words echoed in her mind, a jarring melody of cold authority and uncharacteristic respect. I will not have an intellect like yours wasted entirely on a broom. She had survived the man of Pride. She had even managed to carve a tiny, impossible fracture into his ironclad composure.
But in the Crowe mansion, peace was a luxury that depreciated in seconds.
"Mia."
The cool, rhythmic voice vibrated through the humid air of the hallway, instantly freezing the blood in her veins. Mia snapped her head to the left. A few feet down the opulent corridor, framed by the shadow of a towering marble column, stood Master Richie. He was immaculate, his navy-blue suit jacket buttoned perfectly, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the amber glow of the crystal chandeliers overhead. He didn't look angry; he looked remarkably businesslike, his sharp eyes calculating her exact posture, her breathing, and the state of her caddy.
Richie lifted his right hand, casually signaling with two long, elegant fingers for her to walk to him.
Mia didn't hesitate. Her inherent compliance and deeply natural humility guided her steps as she trudged forward, the bottles in her caddy rattling a soft, anxious rhythm against the plastic frame.
She stopped exactly three steps away from him, immediately dropping her bright blue eyes to the pristine parquet floorboards, bowing her head in deep respect.
"Master Richie," Mia murmured, her sweet voice a delicate whisper. "I have just completed the tasks for Master August. How may I serve you?"
Richie tapped his silver fountain pen against his palm, his mind clearly running through a complex financial balance sheet. He didn't offer a single pleasantry. To the embodiment of Greed, every second wasted was a deficit in the family's books.
"Go to the basement, specifically to the subterranean gun range," Richie said, his voice dropping to a conversational, yet wholly commanding cadence. "I will arrange for Sheila to meet you at the service elevator and show you the exact location. Kane has been costing this household entirely too much money today. He has been down there since noon, burning through a ridiculous amount of specialized ammunition, firing round after round to blow off steam. The floor will be a disaster. Clean the range up. Gather the spent brass. I am sure it is a chaotic mess, and I want the inventory accounted for."
"Of course, Master Richie," Mia complied automatically, keeping her head low. "I will proceed down there immediately."
"Ensure you are thorough, Mia," Richie added, his calculating gaze lingering on the crown of her ink-black hair. "Waste is an inefficiency I do not tolerate under this roof."
"I understand, sir."
Within ten minutes, Mia was navigating the cold, industrial concrete corridors of the mansion's lowest level. Sheila had met her at the elevator as promised, her face tight with a quiet, maternal worry. The older woman didn't speak much- the sheer, terrifying reputation of Master Kane's volatile Wrath was enough to keep anyone silent. Sheila led her down a long, soundproofed hallway lined with reinforced steel padding, stopping abruptly before a heavy, biometric-locked door.
"He's been in a foul state all day, child," Sheila whispered frantically, her hands shaking slightly as she swiped the master maintenance card. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not make any sudden movements. Just sweep the brass and get out."
"Thank you, Sheila," Mia whispered, offering a brave, reassuring smile. "I will be careful."
Sheila left her at the threshold, the heavy steel door hissing open to reveal a cavernous, dimly lit shooting range. The air inside was thick, warm, and heavily saturated with the acrid, sulfurous stench of burnt gunpowder and vaporized lead. The ventilation system hummed a low, mechanical growl, trying and failing to clear the gray haze hanging under the fluorescent lights.
At the far end of the firing line stood Master Kane.
He was a terrifying specter of raw, destructive energy. He had discarded his shirt, wearing only a tight, sweat-stained black tactical vest over his heavily scarred torso. His muscles bunched and rippled as he held a massive, high-caliber black handgun with a practiced, lethal grip.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The deafening, thunderous roars of the weapon shattered the enclosed space, the shockwaves traveling through the concrete floor and vibrating violently directly into Mia's chest. Her ears instantly began to ring, a sharp, piercing whine filling her head. Yet, she didn't flinch. She didn't gasp, she didn't drop her caddy, and she didn't cry out in terror. Her dark, harrowing past had intimately acquainted her with the terrifying melody of gunfire. To her, the sound was not a shock; it was a familiar sound.
Keeping her head down, her bright blue eyes focused entirely on her duties, Mia quietly set her caddy by the back wall. She pulled out a heavy industrial push-broom and a large metal dustpan. Moving with her signature humble grace, she stepped onto the polished concrete floor, which was literally carpeted in thousands of glittering, warm gold bullet casings.
BANG! BANG!
The gun clicked empty, the slide locking back with a sharp, mechanical snap. Kane let out a low, feral growl of frustration, dropping his arms as his chest heaved with heavy, aggressive breaths. His sharp, feral features were tight with an unyielding rage, sweat dripping from his dark hair. He slammed the empty magazine out of the weapon, letting it clatter to the floor, before his fierce gaze snapped to the side, finally noticing the petite girl in the gray uniform.
"You," Kane barked, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp that echoed dangerously off the concrete walls. "Maid. Grab that box of nine-millimeter jacketed hollow-points from the secondary crate behind you."
"Yes, Master Kane," Mia replied softly, her sweet voice cutting through the ringing in her ears.
She turned immediately, locating the heavy wooden ammunition crate. She lifted a heavy, pristine box of premium bullets, her small hands steady despite the brutal atmosphere of the room. She walked over to the firing line, stepping carefully around the piles of brass, and extended her arms, holding the box out to him with her head bowed deeply in total submission.
Kane snatched the box from her fingers, his rough, calloused hands brushing against her delicate, porcelain skin. He rumbled something under his breath, tearing the cardboard open and efficiently stuffing fresh cartridges into a new magazine with terrifying speed.
"Go to the other side of the range," Kane commanded roughly, gesturing with the barrel of his empty gun toward the active shooting lanes, where the targets hung thirty yards away. "There are hundreds of rifle shells scattered behind the barricades from yesterday's training cycle. Clear them out. Clean the entire rear quadrant."
"Right away, Master Kane," Mia whispered.
She picked up her broom and dustpan, walking calmly past the firing line. She stepped out into the active shooting lane, moving down the long, shadowed concrete path toward the paper targets. The targets were shredded, completely obliterated in the center by Kane's flawless, destructive accuracy. Mia knelt near the steel barricades at the thirty-yard mark, her small fingers working diligently to sweep the heavy, spent rifle shells into her dustpan.
She had been sweeping for less than two minutes when the heavy, ominous click of a gun resetting echoed down the lane.
"Don't move."
Kane's voice was suddenly much closer. Mia paused, her broom hovering a millimeter above the concrete. She didn't look up, but her peripheral vision confirmed the terrifying reality: Kane had walked out onto the range. He was standing twenty yards away, his massive black handgun raised, pointed directly down the lane- directly at her.
The air in the subterranean room turned to absolute ice. A normal person would have screamed, dropped to their knees, and begged for their life. The guards, the other maids, even his own associates knew that Kane's Wrath was an unpredictable, blood-soaked storm.
But Mia simply closed her eyes for a brief second, drawing a slow, grounded breath of the sulfurous air. She opened them, her vibrant blue eyes completely calm, fixed entirely on the concrete floor as she remained perfectly still, her hands resting gently on the wooden handle of her broom. She trusted her humility, and she trusted that if her life was to end here, crying would not change the trajectory of the lead.
BANG!
The bullet screamed past her left ear, the supersonic crack tearing through the air so close she felt the sudden, hot displacement of wind whip a stray lock of her ink-black hair across her cheek. The round slammed into the steel trap behind her with a deafening, metallic thud.
Mia did not flinch. She did not blink. A single tear of physical exhaustion tracked down her porcelain cheek, but her posture remained entirely unbroken.
BANG! BANG!
Two more rounds exploded through the silence, striking the metal target just inches to her right and left, completely framing her petite silhouette in a display of impossible, terrifyingly precise marksmanship. Kane was a remarkable shot, a predator controlling the exact parameters of his violence.
The echoing roars finally faded into the hum of the ventilation system. The range fell completely silent.
Kane slowly lowered the weapon, his chest heaving as he stared down the lane at her. His jaw was literally slack, a look of profound, absolute shock completely replacing the volatile rage on his fierce face. He had expected her to break. He had expected her to wail, to crawl, to prove she was just another fragile, disposable piece of house trash. Instead, she stood there like a stone anchor in the middle of his storm.
Kane lifted his left hand, beckoning her to him with a sharp, impatient twitch of his fingers.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice dropping from a roar to a tense, dangerous whisper.
Mia turned smoothly, picking up her dustpan and broom. She walked back down the shooting lane, her steps unhurried, her compliance absolute. She stopped exactly three feet away from him, bowing her head deeply.
"You've been held at gunpoint before, haven't you?" Kane asked bluntly, his fierce eyes boring into her porcelain face, searching for a single tremor, a single sign of a lie. "Don't lie to me. The other maids in this house wail and cry if a guard even draws a taser. You didn't even flinch when a high-caliber round missed your throat by three inches. Why?"
Mia kept her gaze fixed on his heavy boots, her sweet voice entirely steady. "Yes, Master Kane. I have had a weapon directed at me in the past. Panic does not alter the path of a bullet, sir. It only ensures you die with fear in your heart. I prefer to remain useful until I am told otherwise."
Kane stared at her, a low, stunned grunt escaping his lips. The answer was entirely devoid of the pathetic weakness he despised in civilians. It held a cold, resilient grit that deeply unsettled him.
"Have you ever shot a gun?" he demanded, stepping closer, his massive form casting a shadow over her.
"Yes, Master Kane," Mia whispered, her inherent honesty guiding her words. "I have."
Kane's brow furrowed, a sudden, competitive spark entering his fierce eyes. He flipped the heavy handgun in his grip, holding it out by the barrel, presenting the checkered grip directly to her. "Prove it."
Mia paused, her bright blue eyes looking at the cold black steel of the weapon. The ultimate rule of the house dictated absolute obedience. She carefully set her broom and dustpan against the wall, reaching out her small, delicate hands. She took the weapon from his grip.
The weight was heavy, but the moment her fingers wrapped around the frame, her posture completely shifted. Her small hands didn't tremble. Her grip was flawless, her trigger finger resting perfectly along the frame, completely clear of the guard.
She turned toward the target thirty yards away. The paper silhouette was torn to shreds, but the upper right quadrant- the theoretical shoulder of the target, remained untouched.
"The upper right collarbone," Mia said softly, her sweet voice carrying a chilling, absolute certainty. "Where the subclavian artery resides."
Kane narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her. "Make the call, maid. Let's see it."
Mia raised the weapon. She didn't rush. She brought the iron sights up to her line of vision, her feet shifting into a perfectly stable, defensive stance. She drew in a slow breath, letting half of it out, and smoothly, cleanly squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The heavy weapon recoiled in her small hands, but her wrists remained locked, absorbing the shock with an experienced efficiency that defied her porcelain-doll appearance.
Thirty yards away, a single, perfect hole punched directly through the exact millimeter of the paper target she had called- the upper right collarbone.
Kane's eyes widened to the size of saucers. He looked from the target back to Mia, his mind completely fracturing. The mathematical certainty of Richie, the absolute pride of August, the gluttony of Luke- it all aligned in his mind in a single, devastating realization.
This girl was not a simple maid. She was a weapon wrapped in porcelain and cotton.
Just like his brothers before him, Kane's view of her altered entirely in that single, smoking second. He didn't see an asset to be hoarded, a conquest to be taken, or an item to be cleaned. He saw a survivor. He saw a kindred spirit who understood the cold, unyielding reality of violence, yet chose to carry herself with a grace and humility that he could never dream of possessing. The volatile, blood-soaked wrath in his chest suddenly softened into a deep, profound respect.
He reached out, his large hand gently taking the weapon back from her fingers. "Where the hell did a simple girl who moved to the city two months ago learn to shoot like an assassin, Mia? Who taught you?"
Mia lowered her head, her long ink-black lashes casting shadows over her cheeks as she fell back into her humble, compliant demeanor. She couldn't tell him the truth about the dark past she had escaped, or the family she had lost.
"My... my brother taught me, Master Kane," Mia lied softly, her sweet voice carrying a touch of melancholy. "Before he passed, he told me that a woman alone in this world must always know how to defend her own life. He taught me to respect the weapon, and to never pull the trigger unless I meant it."
Kane stared at her for a long, quiet moment, the rough lines of his scarred face softening into something remarkably human. He slid the handgun into his holster, clearing his throat as he stepped back to the firing line.
"Your brother was a smart man," Kane rumbled quietly, his voice losing its terrifying, aggressive edge. He looked at the thousands of spent casings on the floor, then back to her caddy. "Leave the push-broom. I'll have the security recruits clean up the brass tonight. Go upstairs, Mia. Tell Richie I ordered you to take a break. You've done enough labor for one day."
Mia lifted her bright blue eyes, a soft, incredibly genuine smile touching her lips, making her pale face look radiant against the gray haze of the range. "Thank you, Master Kane. I appreciate your kindness."
Kane's face flushed a sudden, furious red, and he quickly turned his back to her, grabbing a fresh box of ammunition. "Yeah, whatever. Get out of here before I change my mind."
"Yes, sir."
Mia gathered her caddy, her small hands holding the handle with a newfound, resilient strength.
- Writer
