Chapter 2 - THE TWENTY-YEAR-OLD CASE
Crawford’s smirk stiffened for a fraction of a second as he met Tara’s unblinking gaze. On an official military championship range governed by strict inter-service regulations, a properly validated entry form signed by the range command could not be dismissed on a flag officer’s whim without formal cause—not with live media cameras capturing every second.
“You’re registered,” Crawford said coldly, snatching the microphone back from the assistant. He turned on his heel, stepping toward the center of the official review pavilion overlooking Lane Twelve.
Tara picked up her gear and walked toward her designated firing position. Carrying her battered, twenty-year-old rifle case by its fraying canvas handle, she stood out like a relic among the modern elite. On either side of her, active-duty military marksmen prepared state-of-the-art bolt-action precision rifles equipped with custom titanium suppressors, thermal-mitigating barrels, and five-thousand-dollar electronic optics. Corporate technicians in branded polos hovered near the neighboring benches, making fine adjustments to wind-tracking telemetry systems.
The cameras followed Tara’s every step, lingering on the thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped around the cracked bottom corner of her hard case.
From the central pavilion, Crawford raised the public address microphone once more, his eyes locked onto Lane Twelve as he set the opening parameters for the first qualification heat.
“Five rounds,” Crawford declared, his voice echoing across the dry coastal landscape. “Five hundred yards.”
He paused, leaning over the brass railing of the pavilion to smile down at the lone female shooter in faded camouflage.
“Try not to hit California,” he added into the receiver.
A chorus of laughter broke out across the stands once again. In the front row, corporate sponsors tapped their programs, amused by the public humiliation of an unsponsored veteran competing against funded military teams.
Tara paid no attention to the noise. Settling herself down on the rubber mat at Lane Twelve, she rested her heavy case on the deck. With quiet, fluid motions honed by thousands of hours in field conditions, she popped the metal latches one by one. The sharp snap of the latches was the only sound she made as the rest of the firing line fell into pre-match preparation.
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Inside the padded foam lay an old, custom-built precision bolt-action rifle. Its matte-black finish was worn down to silver bare metal along the receiver and bolt handle, showing decades of honest use. There were no sleek carbon-fiber stocks or modern digital scopes on her platform—only a heavily modified wooden stock bedded by hand, a heavy steel match barrel, and an analog glass optic with hand-marred elevation turrets.
She lifted the weapon from its cradle, feeling the familiar weight settle perfectly against her hands.
