Chapter 8 - THE SIX-HUNDRED-YARD TARGET
Through the crisp optics of the tactical scope, the distant valley opened up into absolute clarity. Grace’s mind instantly began processing environmental variables: wind speed at three knots from the left, ambient temperature forty-eight degrees, elevation shift minimal.
She reached up with her right hand, her fingers making two precise clicks on the scope’s windage turret, adjusting for the subtle cross-breeze drifting off the pine ridges.
Five feet behind her, Brett leaned in toward Castellin, unable to contain his burning curiosity any longer. His voice was a low, desperate whisper.
"Gunny... please. What does 'Hollow Point' mean?"
Castellin kept his eyes fixed on the distant target line through a pair of high-powered spotting binoculars. He didn't look at Brett as he answered, his voice steady and solemn.
"In Marine Recon, you get a nickname based on your legendary shots," Castellin explained quietly. "Ten years ago in Helmand Province, her unit was pinned down by an enemy sniper team situated inside a concrete bunker seven hundred yards out. The enemy had a three-inch view slit cut into six inches of solid concrete. Nobody could hit it."
Brett’s eyes widened. "And she did?"
"She didn't just hit it," Castellin whispered. "She put three consecutive rounds through a three-inch gap in high crosswinds without missing a millimeter. The rounds expanded so cleanly on impact inside the bunker that her spotter started calling her Hollow Point. She held the longest confirmed streak of first-round impacts in her battalion's history."
Brett felt a sudden, heavy drop in his stomach. His mind flashed back to the porch last night—to his loud, condescending voice declaring, “I’ll teach you the basics tomorrow. Good for your confidence.”
He felt a deep blush of absolute shame wash over his face.
On the firing pad, Grace let out a long, slow exhale. Her chest expanded and settled into a perfect natural point of aim. Her index finger rested lightly against the match-grade trigger, taking up the microscopic slack.
CRACK.
The suppressed rifle barked with a low, heavy thump that echoed off the valley walls.
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A split-second later, six hundred yards downrange, a sharp, metallic CLANG rang through the morning air as the center of the black steel silhouette target swung violently back against its chain mounts.
First round. Perfect dead center.
