Chapter 3 - BEYOND THE PAPER
The gravel crunched sharply beneath Donovan’s heavy combat boots as she crossed the safety line.
The laughing soldiers behind the concrete barrier didn't notice her at first. They were still busy cracking jokes at Emma's expense, recounting their own marksmanship scores and debating how many remedial hours the quartermaster company would have to spend on the fundamental simulators.
"Look at Sergeant Donovan," a corporal said, nudging the man next to him. "She’s going down to check the target herself. Maybe she’s gonna draw a bullseye on it with a Sharpie so Carter doesn't feel left out."
Mercer watched Donovan march past the firing bays. "Donovan," he called out, his voice sharp and commanding over the wind. "Don't bother scoring it. It’s a clean zero. Sign the card as an unqualified fail and pull the next shooter up."
Master Sergeant Donovan acted as if she were completely deaf.
She didn't stop at Lane 7’s concrete bay. She didn't pause to address Emma. She walked straight past the firing line, her eyes fixed entirely on the landscape ahead.
The wind howled across the open gravel, whipping dust across her boots as she marched down the center lane.
Fifty yards away, the white silhouette paper target stood mounted on two pine furring strips. As Donovan approached it, the paper fluttered violently in the crosswind. The white surface was blindingly bright under the two o'clock sun—completely pristine. No holes. No tears. No fraying along the edges.
The soldiers behind the partition watched her reach the target. They expected her to inspect the cardboard backing, confirm the zero-shot failure, pull the paper off the frame, and toss it into the burn barrel.
Instead, Donovan didn't even slow her pace.
She walked straight past the white target, ignoring it completely.
The laughter behind the concrete partition began to die down, dropping off note by note until a strange, confused silence settled over the thirty men gathered behind Colonel Mercer.
Mercer unfolded his arms, his brows drawing together in a hard, dangerous line. He took two steps forward, leaning over the concrete barrier.
"Sergeant Donovan!" Mercer yelled, his voice carrying the full weight of a commanding officer demanding an explanation. "Where are you going?"
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Donovan didn't answer. She didn't even look back.
She continued walking straight down the center lane, her eyes fixed on the far end of Range 4—a hundred yards past the fifty-yard targets, where a massive, scarred concrete backstop rose fifteen feet out of the earth to catch stray rounds and prevent ricochets from escaping into the mountain draw.
