Chapter 3 - PERFECTION AT FIVE HUNDRED YARDS
The red warning flag at the top of the range tower dropped, replaced instantly by a solid green banner. The electronic range buzzer emitted a loud, continuous tone, signaling the start of the three-minute firing window for Heat One.
Across the long firing line, the air ruptured into a chorus of heavy, suppressed gunshots. Metallic clicks, cycling bolts, and the sharp report of match-grade ammunition filled the air as shooters engaged their targets across the sun-drenched valley.
At Lane Twelve, Tara settled into the prone position. Her elbow rested firmly against the dirt, forming a rock-solid tripod with her body. She slid a five-round box magazine into the magwell until it seated with a crisp, mechanical click.
Her breathing instantly slowed, her heart rate dropping into the rhythmic, low cadence of a seasoned sniper operating under pressure.
Through the clear glass of her scope, the five hundred-yard steel target appeared as a small white silhouette against the pale brown hills of Coronado. She made no manual adjustment to her elevation turrets. She didn't need to; she knew the exact drop of her custom hand-loaded rounds at this temperature, altitude, and humidity by pure memory.
CRACK.
The first shot broke cleanly from her rifle. The weapon recoil slammed smoothly into her shoulder, her body absorbing the force without shifting an inch off alignment. Less than half a second later, a sharp, distant sound echoed back across the range.
CLANG.
Target one, dead center.
Without breaking her cheek-weld against the stock, Tara’s right hand worked the bolt in a single, fluid motion. The spent brass casing ejected into the air, tumbling into the dirt as a fresh round was chambered.
CRACK—CLANG.
CRACK—CLANG.
CRACK—CLANG.
CRACK—CLANG.
Five shots in under nine seconds. Every round was released between the calm resting beats of her heart. Every bullet struck the small steel plate at five hundred yards within a cluster no larger than a silver dollar.
At the scoring bench directly behind Lane Twelve, the 30-year-old Competition Scorer stared down at his digital telemetry tablet. The high-resolution camera feeds mounted at the target line showed five distinct impact marks overlapping in the exact center of the bullseye.
The scorer tapped the screen to refresh the sensor data, thinking the system had glitched. The numbers remained identical. He wiped his brow, looked up at Tara—who was already clearing her chamber and inserting a red safety flag into her bolt—and then slowly turned his head toward the central pavilion where Crawford stood.
The Scorer cleared his throat, leaning into his radio microphone.
May you like
“Lane Twelve... Fifty out of fifty,” the Scorer announced, his voice echoing clearly across the public address speakers. “Group size: zero-point-two-eight inches.”
The laughter in the spectator stands vanished in an instant. The entire crowd went completely silent.
