Chapter 7 - THE LONG RANGE BAY
The air out on Firing Lane One was cold, crisp, and cut by a light, cross-valley breeze that rustled the tops of the tall pine trees bordering the range perimeter. Long, open grass stretched out into the distance, interrupted only by small red wind flags planted at two-hundred-yard intervals. At the far end of the valley, barely visible to the naked eye under the morning sun, sat a row of black steel silhouette targets mounted against the dirt backdrop eight hundred yards away.
Brett walked slowly down the concrete pad, his heavy duty watch catching the glint of the sun. The arrogance that had defined his posture on the porch last night was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, watchful tension. He stood three paces behind the bench, his arms folded tightly over his navy polo shirt, his eyes darting between Grace and Castellin.
Castellin approached the heavy wooden bench carrying a massive, custom-built bolt-action precision rifle. The weapon was an engineering marvel—a heavy match-grade barrel housed in a dark olive chassis, equipped with a high-end tactical scope, a suppressor, and a folding bipod. Beside it, Castellin laid down a box of hand-loaded, match-grade heavy-grain ammunition.
"She’s all yours, Ma'am," Castellin said respectfully, stepping back off the concrete pad to give her total clearance.
Grace stepped up to the bench. Her entire energy shifted. The casual family member vanished completely, replaced instantly by an elite tactical operator whose mind functioned like a high-speed computer.
She didn't ask questions about the weapon. Her hands moved over the rifle with terrifying familiarity and speed. She checked the bolt, confirmed the chamber was clear, adjusted the cheek riser on the stock to match her exact eye level with a single turn of a dial, and checked the scope's elevation turrets.
She reached down, picked up a single match-grade round from the box, and slid it into the magazine. Her fingers were steady, fluid, and completely devoid of tremor or hesitation.
Brett swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched her hands move. The speed and precision with which she manipulated the bolt-action rifle exceeded anything he had ever seen at the police academy or on his department's SWAT range.
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Grace sat down behind the bench, extending her long legs back to form a stable tripod base with her body. She pulled her electronic hearing protection down over her ears, adjusted her ballistic glasses, and leaned forward, bringing her right eye flush with the scope's rubber eyepiece.
The range fell dead silent.
