Chapter 10 - MASTERY AT LANE TWELVE
As Mercer disappeared behind the administrative building, the Range Officer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker system, announcing the clearance for live fire across the remaining lanes. The rhythmic crack of rifle fire resumed along the line, but the atmosphere on the range had fundamentally changed. The operators at the nearby benches worked with renewed focus, stealing occasional, highly respectful glances toward Lane Twelve.
The unidentified inspector turned back to her firing bench.
Without a trace of hurry or residual tension, she reached down and picked up the precision rifle. Her hands moved over the stock and receiver with breathtaking speed and fluid grace, chambering a round, checking the sight alignment through the optic, and setting her stance in one seamless, continuous motion.
She stood at Lane Twelve, a solitary figure in plain clothes against a sea of military camouflage, completely owning the space around her.
She raised the heavy rifle, rested the stock flush against her shoulder, and relaxed her breathing. Her eyes narrowed as she lined up the distant steel target resting three hundred yards away across the shimmering desert heat.
CRACK!
A single, crisp rifle shot rang out from Lane Twelve, slicing cleanly through the desert air.
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Three hundred yards down-range, the heavy steel target rang out with a sharp, metallic CLANG, striking dead-center in the bullseye.
She lowered the weapon smoothly, cleared the chamber with a flick of her wrist, and stood at ease under the bright Arizona sun, her face set in a quiet, unshakeable calm that commanded the respect of every shooter on the field.
