Chapter 2 - THE ANGLE OF DISCORD
Grant crossed his broad arms over his chest, a confident, patronizing smirk spreading across his face as he looked over Claire’s shoulder toward the official range setup.
Downrange, a series of bright white steel targets—standard silhouette plates sized to match military specifications—stood clearly marked with fluorescent numbers. Lane 14’s target was clearly visible, gleaming in the harsh sun against the yellow brush at exactly 1,050 yards.
Yet Claire’s optic was dialed far to the left of target 14, aimed toward a barren draw nestled between two rocky outcroppings nearly two miles away.
"You're aiming at the wrong plate, Bennett," Grant called out, his voice loud enough to carry over the quiet chatter of the spectator gallery behind them.
A few junior officers and spectators standing behind the safety line chuckled softly, adjusting their spotting scopes to confirm Grant’s observation. To anyone watching standard competition parameters, Claire looked like she had misread her lane assignment entirely or suffered a massive alignment error on her optic mount.
Claire didn't move an inch. Her cheek remained firmly pressed against the adjustable cheek riser of her stock. Her eyes didn't flicker away from the glass reticle.
"I know," Claire replied calmly, her tone entirely flat, devoid of anger or defensiveness.
Grant’s smile faltered slightly, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer to the edge of her shooting mat. "The lane target is at one-zero-five-zero, straight ahead. You're pointed forty mils to the left into open rock."
Without answering, Claire lifted her right hand to the elevation turret atop her scope. Click. Click. Click. She dialed in a massive amount of vertical elevation, cranking the heavy turret past standard competitive ranges, dialing into a ballistic arc designed for extreme long-range trajectories. Then she adjusted her parallax knob, her eyes reading the subtle mirage dancing across the desert floor.
May you like
Grant stared at the optic adjustments in disbelief. "There's nothing out there, Claire. You're wasting your match round on empty dirt."
Claire remained completely silent. She didn't offer a defense; she didn't offer an explanation. She simply lowered her hand back to the frame, her breath settling into a steady, low cadence that matched the pulse in her throat.
