Chapter 1 - FIVE SHOTS
Master Chief Ryan Cole decided I needed to be embarrassed before he knew why I was standing on his range.
That told me more about him than the rifle did.
He ripped it from the rack, slammed it onto the bench hard enough to send an empty brass tray clattering onto the concrete, then caught it again before it bounced.
A dozen trainees turned.
Somebody grinned.
Ryan liked that.
He picked up the rifle and drove it into my chest.
Not enough to injure me.
Enough to make sure everyone saw who was giving it and who was taking it.
“Five shots. Try not to embarrass yourself.”
I caught the rifle.
My name is Emma Carter.
Forty-one.
No rank on my jacket.
No unit patch.
Dark hair tied back.
A scar running diagonally from the base of my right thumb almost to my wrist.
To Ryan, I was apparently another civilian sent to observe training.
That assumption had been useful for almost three hours.
Commander Daniel Brooks stood twenty feet behind him with his arms crossed.
Daniel had introduced me that morning only as:
“Ms. Carter. Technical observer.”
Ryan had disliked me immediately.
I asked too few questions.
Men like Ryan preferred skeptics who announced themselves.
Silence made him feel watched.
He pointed toward a broad steel silhouette in Lane Three.
Two trainees laughed.
I ignored the silhouette.
Farther downrange sat a small plate hanging against a sand berm.
I checked the rifle.
Nothing dramatic.
Then looked toward Ryan.
“Then watch closely.”
His grin tightened.
I stepped onto the line.
The coastal wind had picked up enough to lift loose sand along the concrete.
I raised the rifle.
First shot.
Steel snapped.
Second.
Same plate.
Third.
Same plate again.
Someone behind Ryan stopped laughing.
I kept the rifle shouldered.
Ryan’s smile was gone now.
He grabbed the target controller.
The moving plate came alive farther downrange.
“Again. Hit that one.”
I shifted.
Fired.
The plate whipped sideways.
Noise broke out behind me.
Not cheering exactly.
That startled sound people make when reality becomes inconvenient.
I lowered the rifle.
Four shots.
Ryan had asked for five.
I had one left.
I did not fire it.
That part went unnoticed by almost everybody.
Daniel noticed.
He also noticed where my right hand settled against the magazine well.
And the scar.
His arms uncrossed.
For the first time that afternoon, the commander stopped pretending he was merely observing Ryan’s little performance.
He walked through the trainees.
Fast.
Ryan turned.
“Sir?”
Daniel passed him without looking.
Stopped in front of me.
Studied my face.
Then my hand.
For a moment he looked twenty years younger.
He came to attention.
Raised his hand.
Saluted.
“Raven One…? They told us you disappeared.”
Nobody moved.
I had not heard that call sign spoken aloud in eleven years.
Ryan looked from Daniel’s salute to me.
Then back again.
“What?”
I placed the rifle on the bench.
Magazine out.
Action clear.
Daniel lowered his hand.
His eyes were still on me.
“I thought Baltimore was a rumor.”
“It was useful that way.”
Ryan stepped closer.
“What the hell is Raven One?”
Daniel reached inside his field jacket.
The sealed black envelope he had been carrying all afternoon came out.
Old insignia stamped faintly in one corner.
A black bird over a broken white circle.
Ryan saw it.
His face changed.
Not because he recognized me.
Because he recognized the symbol.
He had seen it somewhere before.
Daniel broke the seal.
Inside was an old photograph.
Ryan leaned just enough to catch a glimpse.
His expression drained.
I put my hand over the folder.
“Not here.”
Daniel looked at the trainees.
Then nodded.
Ryan stared at me.
“What was in that picture?”
I ignored him.
Instead I looked over his shoulder.
At the electronic scoring display beside Lane Three.
It had updated after my last shot.
Ryan followed my eyes.
So did Daniel.
The screen showed:
5 HITS.
Nobody spoke.
Daniel counted the brass tray.
Four fresh casings.
I had fired four rounds.
Ryan looked at me.
I said:
“That’s why I didn’t take the fifth shot.”
The moving target controller gave a soft electronic chirp.
Then Lane Three registered another hit.
No one had fired.
The trainees stopped smiling.
Daniel turned toward Ryan.
“How long has this lane been doing that?”
Ryan’s face hardened.
“It hasn’t.”
Behind him, one of the younger trainees spoke.
“Master Chief.”
Ryan turned slowly.
The man immediately wished he had stayed quiet.
“What?”
The trainee swallowed.
“It did it Tuesday.”
Silence.
Ryan stared.
Another trainee looked at the ground.
Then another.
Daniel’s voice changed.
Not loud.
Command.
“Cold range.”
Ryan looked at him.
“Sir—”
“Cold. Range.”
The safety officer called it.
Red lights changed.
Weapons cleared.
Daniel pointed toward the trainees.
“Briefing room. Phones stay with you. Nobody deletes anything.”
That phrase changed the temperature.
Ryan turned toward me.
“You came here for the scoring system.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
Then:
“I came because somebody has been changing qualification records.”
For the first time since he shoved the rifle into my chest, Ryan looked afraid.
May you like
Not of me.
Of what he suddenly understood I might already know.
