Chapter 3 - THE DISRUPTED FLUIDS
Mercer’s teeth clicked together. His jaw muscles flexed violently as he realized he had been backed into an intellectual corner by a woman wearing an unbadged grey jumpsuit. The optics were terrible; his candidates were watching, and the authority he spent weeks cultivating was bleeding out into the desert heat.
Lena did not wait for his dismissal. She turned smoothly on her heel, walking three paces back toward her dark-gray maintenance cart parked near the rear concrete retaining wall.
The cart was a heavy, industrial steel unit on rubber casters, loaded with a dented yellow mop bucket, a string mop, replacement target backing paper, a staple gun, and several cans of industrial deck degreaser.
She reached out, placing her hands on the cart’s steel push-handle to roll it toward the far end of the range.
"Hold on," Mercer barked.
He strode across the concrete, his heavy combat boots slamming against the deck. Before Lena could move the cart two feet, Mercer planted his boot against the front caster, grabbed the tubular steel frame with both gloved hands, and yanked it violently toward himself.
CLANG!
The heavy steel cart lurched sideways. The dented yellow bucket tipped past its center of gravity, sloshing twenty gallons of grey, murky mop water across the rim.
SPLASH!
A tidal wave of dirty, detergent-laced water crashed onto the concrete floor. It spread rapidly in a wide, dark slick across the firing lane, washing over Lena’s black work boots and soaking the leather all the way to her ankles. The soapy foam crept toward the firing benches, leaving a glistening, wet sheet across the dry deck.
Mercer let go of the cart frame, stepping back onto dry concrete with a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. He dusted off his tactical gloves, looking down at her soaked boots with dark satisfaction.
"Look at that," Mercer said softly, leaning down slightly. "A mess on my deck. Now you've got something useful to do, contractor. Clean it up before the water slick creates a traction hazard for my shooters."
Ryan Cole, an experienced thirty-two-year-old operator standing two benches down, watched the interaction. Ryan was a broad-shouldered, quiet veteran with three combat deployments behind his belt. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the water spreading across the concrete, then looked at Mercer’s triumphant face. Ryan opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it, his jaw tightening into a hard, uncomfortable line.
May you like
Lena did not show anger. She did not curse. She did not even look up at Mercer’s face to give him the satisfaction of seeing her glare.
She slowly dropped to one knee on the wet concrete, reaching into the spilled bucket to retrieve her string mop, her gray jumpsuit absorbing the dirty water at the knee without a single tremor of hesitation.
