Chapter 5 - STILL YOUR PROFESSIONAL OPINION?
The Range Officer, an older retired veteran wearing an orange safety vest, walked over to the lane controller and hit the retrieval switch.
The overhead steel cables hummed as the five paper targets began sliding downrange toward Bay 7, moving rapidly from twenty-five yards to ten, then five, before finally coming to a stop directly in front of the counter.
Mercer leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles turned white.
Every single one of the five paper targets had a clean, perfect bullet hole punched through the exact center of the "X" ring—the high-tier mortality zone measuring no wider than a teacup saucer. The grouping was mathematical, precise, and executed under a time constraint that most professional competition shooters would struggle to hit with custom equipment.
Mercer looked slowly at the paper targets, his eyes tracking the fresh bullet holes, and then turned his head to look at Sarah. He was completely, utterly speechless. His mind scrambled to reconcile the gray T-shirt, the red jacket tied around her waist, and the plain rental Glock with the terrifying level of marksmanship he had just witnessed.
Sarah slowly set the rented Glock 19 flat down on the rubber shooting mat, placing it squarely in the center of the bench with the ejection port facing up.
She turned her body, looked directly into Mercer’s stunned eyes, and extended her right hand—palm up, fingers open—toward the $100 bill still clutched in his motionless fingers.
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"Still your professional opinion?" Sarah asked, her voice calm, clear, and cutting through the silence like a razor blade.
Nobody laughed. Not a single young Marine made a sound. Mercer swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he slowly released the $100 bill into her waiting hand.
