Chapter 2 - MORNING AT THE RANGE
The next morning, the soft, warm light of the family backyard gave way to the sharp, clear atmosphere of an outdoor shooting facility nestled in the pine-covered hills outside of town. The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint, metallic scent of burnt gunpowder, oil, and damp earth. A low, rolling mist still clung to the grass surrounding the long gravel parking lot as Brett’s pickup truck pulled up to the main office.
Inside the range counter room, the walls were lined with racks of tactical gear, targets, ammunition boxes, and framed photographs of regional marksmanship competitions. Sunlight streamed through the tall front windows, illuminating dust motes dancing over the dark wooden counter.
Brett walked into the facility with the exaggerated, heavy-footed confidence of a seasoned regular. He was dressed in a fitted dark navy polo, dark jeans, and his tactical duty watch. Without waiting for Grace, he stepped up to a wooden staging bench near the bay doors, unboxing a basic beginner setup he had rented from the front office. He laid out a pair of bulk foam earplugs, standard plastic safety glasses, a box of low-caliber target ammunition, and a lightweight, small-frame training rifle designed for absolute novices.
"Alright, Grace, pay attention," Brett said, turning around with his hands on his hips, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of a condescending instructor. "First rule of the range is safety. We start slow. I’ll walk you through stance, grip, and breath control before we even think about touching live rounds."
Grace said absolutely nothing. She stood three paces behind him, wearing her same fitted olive-green T-shirt and dark jeans, holding her own high-end ear protection and ballistic glasses in her hand. Without acknowledging his lecture, she turned away from his staging bench and walked calmly over to the main registration counter to sign the mandatory visitor logbook.
Behind the high wooden counter sat Roy Castellin. Early sixties, Castellin was a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant who now ran the facility. He was a broad-shouldered, iron-jawed veteran with short, steel-gray hair, a weathered face etched by decades of desert sun, and a faded Marine Corps globe-and-anchor tattoo peeking out from beneath his rolled sleeve. He possessed the tired, eagle-eyed gaze of a man who could size up a shooter’s true skill in less than two seconds.
Grace picked up the tethered pen resting beside the binder and began writing her full name across the white paper line in clear, steady script.
Castellin casually glanced down at the logbook to log her arrival time. His eyes scanned the ink: Grace Avery.
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He froze.
The retired Gunnery Sergeant blinked once, his weathered brows knitting together in sudden, intense concentration. He looked at the ink again, then snapped his head up, his piercing gray eyes locking directly onto Grace’s calm face.
