Chapter 6
The sharp crack of the .308 round echoed off the aluminum supports of the white tent, startling a flock of sparrows from the nearby oak trees. Lucas didn't flinch as the recoil shoved the heavy wooden stock solidly into his shoulder, a familiar jolt that he absorbed entirely through his core. He kept his eye glued to the scope, watching through the shimmering heat mirage as a tiny speck of black appeared on the paper target two hundred yards away.
Arthur lowered his binoculars, a low whistle escaping his lips. “Center mass,” he muttered, glancing sideways at Marcus. “Inside the nine ring. Not bad for a cold bore shot on a windy afternoon.”
Marcus didn't smile. He shifted his weight, keeping his sunglasses fixed on the target boards downrange. “One lucky round doesn't make him a marksman,” Marcus said, though his voice lacked the sharp edge it had carried earlier. “Let's see him keep the group together when the barrel heats up and the mirage gets thick.”
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Lucas didn't hear their exchange. His ears were sealed against the noise, and his entire focus was anchored on the rhythm of his own respiration. He worked the bolt with practiced efficiency, the spent brass casing spinning out of the ejection port and pinging softly against the gravel beneath the mat. The smell of cordite drifted up into his face, warm and familiar, reminding him of rainy mornings in the reloading shed behind his house, where his father had spent hours sorting brass and weighing powder grains on a digital scale.
He settled back behind the stock, lining up the crosshairs for the second shot. His heart rate remained low, a testament to hours of dry-fire practice in his bedroom using a weighted pipe instead of a real barrel. He waited for the windsock to steady, timing his trigger pull between the gusts. When he fired the second shot, the recoil felt smoother, almost rhythmic. Through the scope, he saw the second impact punch through the paper just a fraction of an inch to the left of the first hole. A tight, disciplined grouping was forming on the target, defying the skepticism of the men standing behind him.
