Chapter 3
The crisp report of the rifle shattered the heavy afternoon silence of the firing range, sending a sharp wave of concussive force rolling back against the corrugated metal roof. The muzzle flash was a bright, instantaneous blink of orange against the grey gloom. Elena didn't flinch as the heavy stock kicked back sharply into her shoulder, her body absorbing the recoil with a practiced, fluid absorption that kept the scope locked almost entirely on target. Through the glass, she saw the paper target shudder violently as the heavy round punched clean through the center of the bullseye, leaving a ragged, perfect black hole.
Silence hung heavy over the concrete slab for three long seconds. The three junior soldiers standing near the back wall snapped upright, their bored postures instantly vanishing as they stared downrange. Commander Vance didn't move. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tightened perceptibly, his eyes shifting from the distant target back to Elena’s steady hands. He had expected a wild miss, a dropped rifle, or at the very least, a clumsy flinch that sent dirt flying five yards short of the berm. Instead, he was looking at a woman in a stained grey jumpsuit who had just placed a sub-MOA group on paper without even warming up her shoulder muscles.
“Beginner’s luck,” Vance said, though the conviction in his voice had thinned considerably. He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer, peering over her shoulder to inspect the bolt. “Anyone can pull a trigger once if they close their eyes and pray.”
Elena lowered the rifle gently, resting the buttstock back onto the wooden table with a soft thud. She turned her head slightly to look at him, her pale face entirely devoid of triumph or arrogance. There was only a cold, quiet observation in her eyes that made Vance feel strangely exposed. She reached out and gave the elevation turret a single, deliberate click counter-clockwise, compensating for the slight downward drift she had felt through the stock.
“The windage turret has slack in the screw,” Elena said quietly, her voice calm and even. “It’s loose by at least two clicks to the left. If you shoot again without tightening the housing pin, the next round will walk off the target entirely.”
May you like
Vance stared at her for a long moment, his brow furrowing deeply. He reached down and gripped the scope turret himself, twisting it back and forth. His fingers found the microscopic play in the gear that she had diagnosed in less than five seconds of handling the weapon. A muscle ticked along his jawline. He was a career military officer who took pride in the absolute readiness of his armory, yet an inmate in a grey jumpsuit had just pointed out a critical mechanical flaw in his personal sniper rifle.
“Where did you learn to read a match-grade optic like that?” Vance demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that didn't carry to the men in the background.
