Farming Life Starting in Africa

The entire gun was coated with a matte black finish, and some of the edges had been polished to a shine, revealing the metal underneath.

Rosen bent down and picked it up. It felt very heavy, even heavier than SPAS-12. The center of gravity was very forward, and holding it felt like holding a section of steel rail.

He pulled the bolt, and the spring's damping was strong, producing two "clicks" that were much deeper than those of a rifle.

Rosen remembered Caesar from The Expendables; his girlfriend had this kind of thing. Whose girlfriend is rock hard and can easily turn someone into a sieve?

"Should we try this one too?"

The shop owner chuckled beside him, "I don't have any guns here that you can't try out, as long as you can afford to rent them."

What's the point of using this shotgun at the shooting range? Buckshot over 40 meters long will only hit the target.

But there should be slugs and high-explosive shells, right?

The shop owner counted the number of firearms while typing numbers on a calculator, his fingers flying across the keys. The final number displayed was over four thousand seven hundred, almost four thousand eight hundred, which, including ammunition, came to just over five thousand.

Rosen didn't haggle; he counted out the money and put it on the counter. As he took the receipt, he saw the black man winking at the shop owner, and he was speechless.

After paying, Rosen and the black clerk pushed the cart to the shooting range behind the store.

Looking at the attentive black man, Rosen suddenly remembered that this guy looked a lot like Brian's childhood friend, a boastful and greedy fellow.

The door leading to the shooting range was made of thick steel plates. When it was pushed open, the hinges made a "click" sound. Behind it was a corridor about twenty meters long. The walls of the corridor were covered with soundproofing cotton, and the wall lamps were yellowish.

At the end of the corridor were three shooting positions, separated by low concrete walls. Each position had an iron chain hanging in front of it, with a plastic sign that read "Safety Operating Instructions" attached to the chain.

The temperature at the firing range was several degrees higher than inside the store. The air was filled with the lingering smell of gunpowder and lead dust. The exhaust fan above was whirring, stirring up and dispersing the smell.

At the end of the target lane is a wall of bullets made of thick layers of rubber, densely covered with traces of lead cores, which gleam with a dark silver luster under the light.

The black guy left the cart next to Lawson and then left. He'd made a killing today; he couldn't go on his date tonight smelling like gunpowder.

Rosen was happy to have some peace and quiet; no outsiders came into the shooting range today.

Rosen put on disposable earmuffs and goggles. After the earmuffs were pressed tightly against his ears, most of the surrounding sounds were blocked out, leaving only the sound of his own breathing and the echo of his heart beating under his eardrums.

He first took the SPAS-12, loaded it with three 12-gauge buckshot rounds, and pulled the bolt back more smoothly than before, chambering the round with a click. He raised the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

"boom--"

The recoil hit his shoulder socket, harder than he had expected. The bullet hole on the target paper was about ten centimeters off-center.

He adjusted his center of gravity and fired a second shot. This time it was better; the bullet hole landed on the eight-ring.

After firing three shots, he put down the gun, pulled the bolt to eject the empty cartridge cases, which clattered and rolled twice on the concrete ground at his feet before stopping.

He switched back to the AA-12, with the magazine at the bottom, and holding the gun felt like holding a solid anvil.

The recoil was much gentler than with the SPAS-12 when the first shot was fired. The spring of this gun absorbed a significant portion of the impact, but the muzzle flash was also brighter, exploding into a bright orange-red color before going out after a brief flash at the end of the target path.

The bullet impact point landed on the lower half of the target paper, slightly to the right, and the dispersion was larger than that of the SPAS-12.

To get his kicks, Rosen switched to fully automatic mode, aimed at the target, and pulled the trigger all the way down.

More than 30 bullets were fired within 7 seconds, and the target on the other side was completely destroyed.

Next, he started shooting at the 100-meter target. The trigger of the HK416 was crisp, and there was almost no noticeable delay when firing. Except for the first shot, all of them were within the 8-ring.

The SIG552 has a compact design, a short sight radius, and excellent pointing accuracy at close range, but it struggles to operate beyond 100 meters.

The SCAR-H has significantly more recoil than 5.56 caliber rifles, but its accuracy is indeed better; his bursts all landed steadily within the nine rings.

While testing the guns, Rosen also made sure to pile them up in the blind spots of the surveillance cameras, and then scan them one by one in the capsule space.

He quickly obtained all the data on the batch of guns.

After firing for more than two hours, Rosen's feet were piled high with spent cartridges. His wrists and shoulders ached, and his index finger, which had been pulling the trigger, was red.

Even my ears started ringing continuously, and the smell of gunpowder in the air had a warm, pungent quality.

When Rosen emerged from the firing range, the shop owner raised an eyebrow. Was this guy a freak? He fired over a thousand rounds at once.

"How did the trial go? Did you like any of them?"

Rosen said weakly, "Some of the guns are nice, but my body can't take it anymore. I'll think about buying them later."

The shop owner shrugged indifferently. Anyway, his shop had the most complete selection of guns in the area. This person had already spent enough at his shop today, and the profit from a single gun wasn't much anyway.

When Guan Yuming arrived at Rosen's place again, Rosen was having breakfast at the construction site. He discovered that Liu Pei had actually arranged a chef named Li Niu for the workers.

The cook used to be a mess maker in the army, and his skills were quite good; in any case, they suited Rosen's taste perfectly.

When Rosen saw Guan Yuming arrive, he waved to him, "Uncle Ming, have you eaten?"

Guan Yuming swallowed hard upon smelling the familiar aroma. "I can eat some more."

As he spoke, he walked to the dining area, took a plate, and filled it to the brim.

When Guan Yuming sat down with the tray, Rosen noticed that although the man was old, his hands were still steady. His fingers were thick, with thick calluses on his knuckles from gun use.

But Rosen only glanced at his hands before his attention was drawn to the plate in them. Guan Yuming piled the fried rice with celery and shredded pork, chives and eggs, sausage and snow peas, and stir-fried potato shreds, one by one, until it was like a small mountain.

If the plate hadn't been big enough, he probably would have had to use a bowl to hold the food. Guan Yuming sat down and began to eat heartily.

Rosen found it somewhat amusing to watch the enormous amount of food the woman ate and how quickly she devoured it. At her age, wouldn't she get indigestion from eating so much?