He pointedly handed the Glock to me. I nodded and tried to repeat the procedure. Extracted the magazine, started pulling the slide back... and at that moment my inexperience showed. For a split second, just one awkward movement, the pistol barrel shifted toward Frank.
His reaction was lightning-fast. He didn't just step aside, his body seemed to blur in movement, instantly leaving the line of fire. The next second he roared, and his voice hit my ears like a shot:
"Rule number two: NEVER POINT A WEAPON AT ANYTHING YOU DON'T INTEND TO SHOOT!"
I froze, going cold. Silence in the basement became deafening.
"Barrel points either at target, or at floor, or at ceiling," he continued more calmly but with icy coldness in his voice. "You get pushed, you stumble, finger slips, bullet flies out. And it won't care that you didn't mean to. This gets burned into reflexes. One more time, and I'll break your arm. Understood?"
I swallowed convulsively and nodded. Lesson learned. And I really didn't want to check if he meant it about "break your arm."
Frank took the second Glock, demonstrating his grip. His index finger lay perfectly straight on the frame, far from the trigger.
"Rule number three: KEEP YOUR FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL READY TO SHOOT. Your finger lies on the frame, straight as an arrow. It touches the trigger only the moment your sights are aimed at target and you've made the decision to shoot. Not earlier. This is beginners' most common violation. And most deadly."
He put down the Glock and pointed at the far wall with targets.
"Rule number four: ALWAYS KNOW YOUR TARGET AND WHAT'S BEYOND IT. In the city there are no 'safe shots.' Bullets penetrate walls, cars, and people. Anyone could be behind your target. Every time you press the trigger, you bear responsibility for the entire path the bullet travels. No certainty, no shot. So, got it?"
I straightened, looking him straight in the eyes, and clearly, without a single stutter, recited:
"Always treat a weapon as if it's loaded. Never point it at anything I don't intend to shoot. Keep finger off the trigger until ready. And always know my target and what's beyond it."
The rules were engraved in my brain. Frank nodded silently. The theoretical part was over.
"Good enough," Frank said briefly, and in that word was no hint of praise, just stating a fact. "Let's proceed to practice. Starting with assembly-disassembly."
He picked up the Glock. His movements were economical, smooth, without a single unnecessary gesture.
"Glock, as I already said, simple as a brick. Just five main parts you need to know: frame, slide, barrel, recoil spring, magazine. Disassembles in three seconds," he commented on each action, as if dictating instructions. "Remove magazine. Check chamber. Pull slide back slightly. Press release tabs. Remove slide. Done. You should be able to do this blindfolded, in complete darkness, under fire."
Repeating the process again, already lightning-fast, he gestured at the second pistol. Signal for me. I ran through his instruction in my head, which was already imprinted in memory, and took the weapon. To my own surprise, I succeeded on the first try. My fingers moved with such confidence and precision, as if I'd spent my whole life doing nothing but disassembling and assembling Glocks. Master Watchmaker magic worked flawlessly, turning any mechanical device into an intuitively understandable system for me.
Frank silently watched my hands for a long time, and his gaze was heavy, analyzing.
"You catch on fast," he finally said, and this was the highest degree of praise he was apparently capable of. He immediately took the AK. "Then we move to a weapon created for war, not exhibition. Here the clearances between parts are such you can pour sand in there and it'll still shoot. Disassembly is primitive. Press latch, remove receiver cover. Take out return mechanism. Pull out bolt carrier with bolt. Done. Parts are large, sturdy. This weapon forgives mistakes."
I repeated after him, and again everything went perfectly. The thought of school safety classes made me smirk. Then my hands were clumsy, I confused the sequence. Now they moved with grace and understanding I didn't fully control. Frank nodded sparingly, his gaze became even more studying, and moved to the last weapon for today.
"And this is different philosophy. Accuracy and modularity. AR-15. Disassembles into two halves, upper and lower receiver. Push out two pins, and the rifle 'breaks open.' Bolt carrier group removes from the rear. Parts are smaller, tolerances tighter. Requires attention and cleanliness. If dirt gets in the AK, it'll 'spit it out.' If it gets in here, it might jam. Keep that in mind."
Assembly-disassembly didn't take much time. Convinced I'd mastered the mechanics, Frank moved to the next stage.
"Now, combat accuracy basics. Your body is a machine that holds the tool. And this machine must be perfectly calibrated."
He approached me and firmly, without ceremony, began correcting my posture.
"No relaxed poses. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, body weight, forward, on toes. Stance should be aggressive, ready for movement. Hold pistol as high as possible. Grip, death grip. You should 'crush' the handle so weapon becomes part of your body, not a separate object."
"What about breathing? That's important, right?" I asked, trying to get used to the unusually tense pose.
"At sport competitions, maybe. There they'll tell you about holding on exhale," contempt sounded in his voice. "In combat there's no time for that crap. Your heart will pound like crazy, lungs will burn. You learn to work the trigger in natural pauses between heartbeats. You don't fight your body. You find an island of calm in the middle of a storm and work from there."
After practicing stance, pistol practice began. Frank explained the difference between two types of reload.
"Emergency. Combat in full swing, slide locked back. You're empty. Your task, get weapon back in the fight as fast as possible. Movement is one, fluid: finger drops empty mag, it falls to ground, forget about it, it won't save your life. Simultaneously other hand already flies to pouch, gets full mag, inserts it, you slap it with palm and hit slide release. Weapon's back in the fight. Standard, one and a half seconds."
Even with Master Watchmaker, my best result after dozens of repetitions was about two seconds. Muscles needed practice.
"Tactical. Combat died down. Few rounds left in magazine. Starting new combat with half-empty mag, idiocy. You get full mag, bring it to pistol. Then carefully extract the partial and stow it. Only then insert the full one. Do everything naturally at maximum possible speed, but even so, it's slower, but you conserve ammo and are always ready for new clash."
I did better with this. More complex and precise sequence of movements fit my skill perfectly. Frank noticed.
"More complex means better for you. Like a watchmaker," he muttered to himself, but I heard.
I also tactfully stayed silent about what kind of combat awaited me. That would be stupid. This was the Marvel world. Here danger doesn't need to be sought, it'll find you itself.
The last hour of training was most intense. Frank drove me through carbine exercises until the seventh sweat, and his praise, though sparse, for my accuracy was the best reward.
"Look at the rifle," he said, taking the AR-15. "Sight is here," he tapped the red dot, "and barrel, here, two and a half inches lower. At fifty meters this doesn't matter. But if target's three meters from you and you're aiming at the head, bullet goes to chest. Aim at eye, hit chin. This is called mechanical offset. In close combat you must instinctively aim higher. We'll practice this until you start feeling it at reflex level."
And we started practicing. I shot... shot a lot. Recoil, smell of gunpowder, ringing of casings, all merged into one flow. The culmination was a transition drill. When Frank roared: "Empty!", I already automatically dropped the rifle on its sling, drew the pistol, and continued firing. As Frank said, this is a drill that saves lives. And I absolutely agreed with him.
By the end of the fourth hour I felt every muscle. Legs hummed, arms trembled from tension. But they remembered. Remembered how to blindly disassemble a Kalashnikov, how to change a Glock magazine in two seconds, how to instantly transition to pistol when the rifle ran out of ammo. I left Frank not an expert, but with a solid foundation of combat skills. I bought not just pieces of deadly metal, but understandable and predictable tools. And now, on this foundation, I could build real combat mastery. Six thousand dollars were well spent.
Driving home in the Honda, I thought about Frank. One difficult question wouldn't leave me alone: was he already the Punisher or not yet? Remembering his manner of carrying himself, speaking, his dry, grim humor, I came to the conclusion, no. There was life in him. There was fury, was discipline, but not that dead, scorched emptiness I'd read about in comics. The original Punisher was a deeply sad and broken character who rejected humanity. And this Frank was alive. Which meant he had something to live for.
With 90% probability his family was fine. And it would be damn good if it stayed that way. Not from pure altruism. Stable Frank Castle was a valuable and reliable contact. The Punisher was just a natural disaster. So yes, someday, when I had enough strength, I'd need to think about how to safeguard his family. But those were thoughts for the future...
Arriving home, I looked at my already beloved wristwatch. 6:11. Twenty minutes until Lucas's courier arrived. I quickly took a shower, washing off sweat and gunpowder residue, and changed clothes. Muscles ached pleasantly. Frank said that despite my innate (acquired, but he didn't need to know that) accuracy, I'd need to spend a couple hours a week at the range. Zeroing in, honing skills.
Exactly at 6:30 an inconspicuous cargo van pulled up to the house. Two silent guys in work clothes quickly and professionally unloaded everything purchased. My garage instantly transformed from a relatively spacious workshop into a high-tech equipment warehouse. Some boxes even had to be brought into the house, space was catastrophically insufficient.
When the van left, I remained alone among my new arsenal. Time was approaching seven in the evening. I looked at the vacuum chamber, at the industrial mixer, at the rolls of aramid fabric, at the boxes of chemicals.
All parts in place. All tools ready. The question now was what to do...