An Admiral ground his boot into my registration papers and called me "the Walmart sniper," unaware that my Army file was classified far above his pay grade.

The hot wind whipped across the firing line, snapping the bright red warning flags mounted at fifty-yard intervals down the range. At the far end of the course, five steel torso targets hung suspended from heavy chains at six hundred yards, looking no larger than postage stamps under the shimmering mirage of the heat waves.

Tara unlatched the rusty metal clips of her ancient case. Inside lay a custom-barreled bolt-action rifle built on an old M24 receiver, its stock scratched and painted in faded desert camouflage. There were no electronic rangefinders attached, no digital wind-tracking HUDs—just a heavy-contour barrel, a rugged iron-and-glass optical scope, and a simple leather sling.

She assumed the prone position on the concrete shooting pad, settling her body onto the hot surface with absolute familiarity. Her elbows formed a solid, unshakeable tripod. She pulled the bolt back, slotted five hand-loaded rounds into the magazine, and drove the bolt forward into battery.

From behind the safety railing, Rear Admiral Crawford adjusted his cap and stepped near an active microphone. His loud, booming voice echoed across the entire facility:

"Try not to hit California."

A ripple of laughter coursed through the bleachers.

Tara did not react. The moment her cheek touched the comb of the stock, the entire world outside her reticle vanished. The noise of the crowd, the heat of the sun, the presence of the Admiral—all of it dissolved into pure, clinical calculation.

Wind: four knots from nine o'clock. Mirage drift: two MOA right. Heartbeat: forty-eight beats per minute.

She took a long, smooth breath in, exhaled halfway, and let her body settle into the natural point of aim. Her finger rested gently against the curved metal trigger.

Beep.

The automated electronic range signal dropped.

Before the sound of the tone had fully died away, Tara pressed the trigger.

BANG.

The heavy recoil drove into her shoulder, but her sight picture barely moved. She cycled the bolt in a lightning-fast, rhythmic motion, ejecting the spent brass shell casing with a sharp metallic clinking sound onto the concrete.

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.