Chapter 4
The heavy green shooting mat smelled of old rubber and damp grass as Lucas unrolled it behind Bench Four. The other competitors had cleared the immediate area, giving the boy room, mostly out of curiosity mixed with mild resentment. They watched him unpack his equipment with a critical eye, noting every small detail. Lucas pulled out a pair of foam earplugs, rolled them between his fingers until they compressed, and inserted them firmly into his ears. The ambient roar of the range dropped to a dull, muffled hum, isolating him within his own thoughts.
Arthur walked over, carrying a small wooden block to prop up the rear of the rifle stock if needed, but he stopped a few feet away, respecting the boy's space. “You got a spotting scope?” Arthur asked.
Lucas shook his head, his light brown hair brushing the collar of his hoodie. “I’ll use the crosshairs,” he replied quietly.
Arthur nodded slowly, noting the battered wooden stock of the rifle as it finally emerged from the canvas bag. It was an older Remington 700 bolt-action, custom-bedded into a walnut stock that had been sanded down and oiled by hand many times over. The parkerized finish on the barrel showed wear near the muzzle, but the scope mounted on top was a precision optic—far too expensive for the rest of the kit, gleaming with clear glass that caught the afternoon sun. It was a serious tool resting in untrained, youthful hands.
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Marcus stood a few paces back, hands back on his hips, acting as the ultimate arbiter of safety. He checked his watch, noting that the afternoon relay was running five minutes behind schedule because of the interruption. “All right, kid,” Marcus called out, his voice cutting through the earplugs just enough to register. “You have ten rounds in your pocket. You have five minutes to zero and five for record at two hundred yards. Don’t waste our time.”
Lucas didn't answer. He dropped flat onto his stomach, sliding his elbows into position on the rubber mat. His body settled naturally behind the rifle, shoulders squared, legs spread at a comfortable angle to absorb the recoil. He reached out with his right hand, his fingers wrapping firmly around the bolt handle, and pulled it back with a smooth, practiced motion. The extractor clicked, and the chamber remained empty as he waited for the official command to begin the sequence.
