Chapter 8
The fifth round cleared the chamber with a sharp metallic clatter, leaving a small heap of brass casings sparkling in the dust beside the mat. Lucas sat up slowly, pushing the safety lever back into position with his thumb. He took off his earplugs, letting the ambient noise of the range rush back in—the murmur of conversations, the distant hum of traffic on the highway, and the steady flapping of the American flags against their poles.
Arthur picked up his spotting scope and adjusted the focus dial, scanning the target board at two hundred yards. He whistled softly under his breath. “Four out of five inside the ten ring,” Arthur announced, looking back at the spectators who had gathered near the safety line. “That’s a sub-moa grouping with factory surplus ammo out of an unbedded factory barrel. I haven't seen shooting like that on this relay all month.”
A few of the other shooters nodded in grudging respect, murmuring among themselves. Marcus walked forward, stepping up to the edge of the mat and looking down at Lucas, who was quietly packing his rifle back into the worn canvas bag. The hostility in Marcus’s posture had dissolved, replaced by a complex mix of professional curiosity and lingering skepticism.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that, kid?” Marcus asked, his tone no longer stern, though still guarded.
May you like
Lucas didn't answer immediately. He tucked the bolt into its retaining pocket inside the bag and smoothed out the flannel lining before pulling the heavy zipper shut. He looked up, his light brown eyes meeting Marcus’s sunglasses without wavering. “My father,” Lucas said simply. “He used to bring me out here before the hospital bills took everything.”
The silence that followed was heavy and uncomfortable. Arthur cleared his throat, looking down at his boots, while some of the spectators turned away, suddenly finding their own gear much more interesting. Everyone under the tent knew the economic reality of the valley—the layoffs at the lumber mill, the rising cost of medical care, and the quiet tragedies that played out behind closed doors in the modest homes lining the river road. Marcus let out a slow breath, his rigid shoulders dropping an inch. The harshness in his face melted away, leaving the tired expression of a middle-aged man who had seen too many good people crushed by circumstances beyond their control.
