Chapter 3 - THE SWITCH
Sarah stepped up to the firing line, positioning her feet shoulder-width apart in a classic, perfectly balanced athletic stance.
Mercer took two steps back to clear her lane, still laughing and tossing a glance back at his group of young Marines. "Watch this, boys. Keep your eyes on her posture."
Sarah raised the Glock 19 to chest level, bringing the weapon into her compressed ready position.
Then, the automated range horn sounded its sharp, high-pitched BEEP to signal the start of the course of fire.
In that microscopic fraction of a second, the ordinary civilian woman vanished entirely.
Her entire physical demeanor underwent an immediate, terrifying transformation. Her rounded shoulders dropped and locked down into her latissimus muscles, her elbows flared inward into a rock-solid isosceles stance, and her core tightened like a drawn bowstring. Her hands clamped down on the Glock with a high-support, high-tang grip that completely absorbed the weapon's frame—a grip designed specifically to eliminate muzzle flip under rapid fire.
Most terrifying of all was her face. The mild, quiet civilian expression evaporated, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. Her eyes narrowed into piercing steel slits that tracked the sights with absolute, lethal intent.
The Quiet Marine instantly froze in place. His jaw tightened, his posture going stiff as a board.
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That isn't a civilian stance, the Quiet Marine thought, his blood running cold as he recognized the mechanical perfection of a elite operator entering a lethal engagement window. That isn't even standard Marine Corps doctrine.
Before Mercer could finish turning his head back toward the firing line, the first shot tore through the late afternoon air.
