Chapter 8
The midday sun beat down mercilessly on Range Four, a vast, sun-baked expanse of sand and gravel bordered by towering earth berms. Downrange, rows of pop-up steel silhouette targets stood waiting in the shimmering heat haze. The air smelled sharply of cordite, hot metal, and ozone—a scent that instantly spiked Miller’s adrenaline the moment they stepped off the transport truck.
"Live ammunition!" Vance’s voice barked through the PA system, echoing off the concrete firing booths. "This isn't a video game, and these aren't training rounds. You miss your target, you own the mistake. Form up on the firing line!"
Miller shouldered his M4 carbine, feeling the familiar, reassuring weight of the weapon against his shoulder. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his breathing remained controlled, a rhythm he had practiced every night in the dark barracks. Beside him, Elena slid into her firing lane with the fluid grace of an apex predator settling into position.
"Range is hot!"
A chorus of metallic clacks and snaps filled the air as safeties were clicked off. Miller pressed his cheek firmly against the stock, aligning his iron sights with the nearest target three hundred meters out. The heat rising from the gravel distorted the air, making the steel silhouette shimmer like a mirage.
"Engage!"
The firing line erupted into a deafening wall of sound. The concussive blast of fifty rifles firing simultaneously hit Miller’s chest like a physical blow. Brass casings flew through the air in a glittering shower, landing with soft clinks on the concrete floor.
Miller squeezed the trigger. Crack. The recoil drove backward into his shoulder, a familiar, controlled shock. He saw the target snap backward with a satisfying metallic ring. He adjusted his aim, exhaled slowly, and squeezed again. Crack. Hit.
Down the line, Elena was operating with terrifying efficiency. Her rifle barked in rhythmic, deliberate intervals—pause, aim, fire, clear, repeat. Not a single wasted motion. Not a single flinch at the deafening noise around them.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic screech cut through the cacophony. To Miller’s right, Davies’s rifle jammed, the bolt carrier stuck halfway open on a stovepiped casing. Davies froze, his eyes widening in panic as he fumbled blindly with the charging handle, his finger still dangerously close to the trigger guard while the muzzle of his weapon drifted slightly off the berm.
"Stop firing! Stop firing!" Elena shouted instantly, dropping her own weapon to the mat and lunging sideways.
Before Vance could even take a step from the control tower, Elena had slapped Davies’s barrel down toward the ground, gripped the charging handle with a sharp, practiced wrench, and cleared the jammed casing in less than two seconds.
May you like
Davies was shaking, his face pale beneath a layer of range dust. "I... I panicked," he stammered, his voice trembling.
Elena stared at him, her eyes hard as flint. "Panic kills, Davies. Check your chamber before you pull the trigger, or next time you won't get a second chance."
