Chapter 7 - THE FIRST SHOT
The desert seemed to hold its breath.
On the shooting mat, Claire reached the absolute bottom of her exhalation cycle. Her lungs were still. Her heart rate had dropped into a low, rhythmic forty beats per minute. Her index finger slid smoothly off the receiver frame and rested lightly against the curved steel of the M110 trigger.
She did not pull the trigger. She did not squeeze it rapidly.
She applied steady, linear rearward pressure—two pounds, three pounds, three and a half pounds.
BANG!
The sudden, violent crack of the 7.62mm round shattered the quiet of the range.
A bright tongue of orange flame flashed from the M110 muzzle brake, sending a concussive shockwave rippling across the concrete floor. Dust blew out from beneath the bipod legs, and a cloud of blue smoke drifted up into the iron rafters.
The heavy bolt cycled instantly back, ejecting a glowing, smoking brass cartridge casing that flew through the air and clattered onto the concrete pad beside Kane's boots.
The bullet traveled eight hundred meters through the heat shimmer in just over one second.
Far downrange, at the base of the mountains, a tiny, crisp sound echoed back across the desert floor.
CLANG!
A sharp, metallic ring of lead striking heavy armor plate echoed back to the firing line.
Range Master Ellis lifted his high-powered spotting scope, peering through the eyepiece aimed at the white steel torso target eight hundred meters away.
Through the optics, in the exact center of the target's chest—right over the painted black bullseye—a fresh, gray lead smudge sat gleaming in the sunlight.
Ellis swallowed hard, his hands tightening on the tripod handles. "Center mass. Dead center."
Lieutenant Brooks blinked, staring out into the shimmering distance with his mouth half-open. "Lucky shot. The wind shifted right as she—"
BANG!
Before Brooks could finish his sentence, Claire fired her second shot.
She hadn't reset her posture. She hadn't lifted her head from the cheek-piece. The rifle had tracking straight back into her shoulder under recoil, the strange inverted support grip absorbing the kick effortlessly and driving the scope reticle right back onto the target in less than half a second.
Another smoking brass casing spun through the air, landing flat beside the first.
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A fraction of a second later, the metallic ring returned.
CLANG!
