Chapter 2 - THE WAGER AT THE BENCH
The afternoon wind swept through the dividers of Bay 7, rustling the spent brass casings scattered across the concrete floor. The echo of rifle fire from the distant 100-yard rifle bays thundered in the background, but inside the narrow confines of the pistol lane, the atmosphere turned electric.
Mercer’s smile widened as he stepped closer to the firing line, enjoying the audience behind him. He raised his left hand, pointing downrange toward five human-silhouette paper targets suspended from the overhead cable system at a distance of twenty-five yards.
"Five shots. Five targets. Four seconds," Mercer stated, laying down the challenge with authoritative ease. "Standard combat transition drill. High-center chest on every single one."
He raised the $100 bill higher, letting the sea breeze flutter the green paper right beside her line of sight.
"Beat me," Mercer added, his tone brimming with the supreme confidence of a man who held instructor certifications across three military small-arms platforms. "You hit all five in under four seconds, the hundred is yours. You miss even one, or take a fraction of a second longer, and you buy the next three rounds of ammo for my boys back there."
The four young Marines chuckled again, nudging each other with their elbows, anticipating an entertaining display of civilian failure.
Standing at the rear of the bay, the Quiet Marine didn't smile. His head tilted down by a fraction of an inch. His focus narrowed exclusively onto Sarah’s hands. He didn't look at her face, her red jacket, or the $100 bill. He watched her thumb position, the subtle shift in her center of gravity, and the way her index finger indexed the weapon's receiver.
Sarah didn't argue. She didn't offer a witty comeback.
She reached down, picked up the full double-stack magazine from the rubber bench, and pushed it into the magazine well of the Glock 19 until a loud, positive click echoed through the bay.
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"Fine," Sarah said softly. Her voice was flat, level, and entirely devoid of emotion.
The Quiet Marine’s eyes widened slightly. He stopped leaning against the support pillar, stepping forward two inches, his body completely rigid as he realized something fundamental was wrong with the scenario Mercer had just created.
