Chapter 1 - The Target From Lane Two
Mason Reed ripped the earmuffs off my head before I touched the handgun.
He slammed them onto the bench.
Then shoved me sideways into the lane divider.
My shoulder hit hard enough to make the whole partition shake.
I caught myself on the bench.
“What the hell?”
Mason stood close.
Twenty-nine. Range supervisor polo. Supervisor badge clipped at his belt.
A man I had met for approximately forty seconds.
“You already failed once today.”
I straightened.
“I just got here.”
His expression changed.
Tiny.
Immediate.
Then his hand closed around the front of my shirt.
“We're done.”
He tried to drag me out of Lane Four.
I tore free and shoved him.
Mason stumbled backward until his lower back hit the table behind the firing line.
Every conversation in the observation area stopped.
He started toward me.
A gray-haired range officer stepped between us.
“Enough.”
Mason stopped.
Barely.
The older man held one arm out.
“Back up.”
“Walter—”
“I said back up.”
Walter Hayes was sixty-four, according to the certification posted beside the control desk.
He looked at me.
“You hurt?”
“Shoulder.”
“Need medical?”
“No.”
He glanced at Mason.
“Then nobody touches anybody again.”
Mason laughed under his breath.
Walter heard.
“Try me.”
That ended it.
He looked at me.
“You came for the evaluation?”
“Yes.”
“Want to continue?”
Mason snapped:
“He already failed.”
Walter did not turn.
“Did I ask you?”
Silence.
I put the earmuffs back on.
Finished what I had come to do.
No theatrics.
No looking at Mason.
When I was done, the paper target stopped downrange.
Walter looked through the safety glass.
Mason looked too.
His face changed.
Not anger this time.
Unease.
The carrier brought my target back.
Walter moved to the digital console.
Then stopped.
He tapped the history screen once.
Then again.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
I stepped over.
My name appeared three times.
ETHAN CARTER.
One session was mine.
Two were from earlier that morning.
Same lane.
Different timestamps.
I stared.
“I told you. I wasn't here.”
Walter looked at Mason.
“Why is he logged twice before he arrived?”
Mason's face hardened.
“System duplication.”
Walter looked back at the screen.
“Twice?”
“It happens.”
“I've worked here eighteen years.”
Mason reached across us, tore my target off the carrier and started walking.
I caught the other edge.
“Give me that.”
“Let go.”
“You're taking my test.”
“It belongs to the range.”
Walter said:
“Mason.”
He kept pulling.
The paper tore halfway down the center.
Then Lane Two lit green.
All three of us stopped.
Lane Two had been empty since I arrived.
Its carrier started moving toward the firing line.
No one stood inside the lane.
The carrier rolled back.
A used target hung from it.
Tight grouping.
Close enough to mine that the trainees behind us started whispering.
Walter did not.
He looked at the target.
Then at Mason.
I watched Mason's face drain.
The lane speaker crackled.
A man's voice came through.
Calm.
“Ask Mason who shot that one.”
I turned toward Lane Two.
Empty.
Walter moved toward the observation desk.
“Who's on comms?”
No answer.
I looked at Mason.
“Who shot it?”
His mouth tightened.
The speaker crackled again.
“Don't let him tell you it was Ethan.”
Mason whispered:
“Son of a bitch.”
I heard him.
“Who?”
He looked toward the observation glass above us.
Then back at the target.
For the first time since he shoved me, Mason looked afraid of someone who wasn't in the room.
Walter said:
“Mason.”
No response.
“Who is that?”
Mason stared at the dark observation window.
May you like
Then said something I wasn't ready for.
“He wasn't supposed to come back.”
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