Chapter 1
The cold concrete floor beneath the metal roof of the outdoor firing range felt slick and unforgiving against the wet mop head. Elena Parker kept her breathing measured, forcing her ribs to expand evenly inside the stiff grey jumpsuit. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a utilitarian ponytail, trapping stray strands against the pale skin of her neck where a smudge of dry engine grease left a dark crescent. Commander Vance stood two paces to her right, his fifty-year-old frame encased in crisp military camouflage that rustled faintly with every shift of his weight. Three junior soldiers hovered near the rear concrete pylons, their rifles slung low, watching the interaction with practiced, emotionless detachment. Vance looked down at her with a gaze as grey as the overcast sky pressing against the corrugated metal overhang.
“Stick to cleaning,” Vance had said just moments ago, his voice dropping into the damp air like lead weights hitting water.
Elena did not flinch. She pushed the damp sponge forward, listening to the wet squeak echo off the concrete barriers. She had heard variations of that sentence for three years in the internment facility three miles south, where mechanics and engineers were routinely reduced to scrubbers of grease and rust. But Elena was not merely a mechanic. Her hands, though currently stained with grey water from the dented steel bucket beside her, possessed a sensitivity to mechanical tolerances that few active-duty marksmen could comprehend. Vance watched her strokes, his eyes narrowing as she didn't rush. He stepped closer, his heavy black combat boots stopping inches from the edge of the puddle she was clearing.
“You got something to say, Parker?” Vance asked, his tone laced with a biting challenge designed to provoke an insubordinate slip.
Elena paused, her hands resting lightly on the wooden handle of the mop. She raised her chin just enough to meet his eyes. Her expression remained neutral, a mask forged in survival.
“Bet you’ve never fired anything bigger than a spray bottle,” Vance muttered, turning his head slightly toward the waiting soldiers to invite their silent agreement.
May you like
The junior soldiers exchanged quiet, knowing glances. Vance gestured dismissively toward the empty firing benches lining the concrete range, then reached down to pick up the heavy, matte-black sniper rifle resting on the scarred wooden table. He checked the bolt assembly with practiced familiarity before turning back to her. Instead of barking another order, Vance thrust the weapon forward, offering it directly into her damp, soapy hands. Elena hesitated for a fraction of a second, then raised her palms, accepting the cold, oil-slicked steel.
“This range is for qualified shooters,” Vance said, his voice dropping an octave as he watched for hesitation. “Let’s see what happens.”
