The major mocked the elderly woman in civilian clothes on the firing range, right until she checked his rifle and ordered an immediate cease-fire.

Captain Daniel Reeves took half a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he watched Margaret’s hands.

Margaret didn't raise the weapon to her shoulder. She didn't point it toward the targets or peek through the optical sight. Instead, her movements became rapid, fluid, and instinctual.

In one continuous motion, her thumb slid the magazine release—checking that the well was clear—while her left palm swept upward to catch the bolt charging handle. She pulled the charging handle rearward just enough to inspect the chamber, her pale eyes checking the breech face for seated rounds or obstruction under the harsh sunlight.

Daniel blinked. She cleared the weapon using the Soviet-style finger-sweep clearance method, he realized with a jolt of astonishment. It was a technique rarely seen outside high-tier special operations or specialized armorer courses.

Margaret brought the charging handle back to battery, then pulled it rearward a second time, slowly cycling the bolt carrier group through its internal track.

Screeech.

It was a tiny, high-pitched metallic scrape—a sound almost imperceptible beneath the roaring gunfire from the active lanes thirty yards away. But to Margaret’s trained ear, it was as loud as a thunderclap.

She stopped instantly. Her thumb held the charging handle at half-travel.

Nathan frowned, stepping closer. "What are you doing? It's a clean weapon, straight from the depot."

Margaret ignored him completely. She released the handle, letting the spring drive the bolt forward, then slowly pulled it back a third time, feeling the resistance in her forearms.

Screeech.

The same minute, abrasive drag occurred at the exact point where the gas key met the receiver extension.

Margaret’s face changed. The calm, polite expression vanished, replaced by an icy, severe intensity that chilled Daniel to the bone.