Chapter 3 - The Bench Slam
Ryan stepped fully into her lane.
His shadow cut across the rifle.
“You think this is a joke?”
“No.”
“You think you watched a few training videos and now you belong beside professionals?”
“No.”
“Then what exactly are you doing here?”
The woman tightened her grip.
“Saving time.”
That answer hit the range wrong.
A few shooters exchanged looks. One glanced toward Commander Brooks. Another stared at the access road, as if somebody important should have stopped this before it became strange.
Ryan did not like strange.
He liked control.
So he took it the only way he knew how.
He slammed his palm hard onto the shooting bench beside her rifle.
Loose brass jumped. Dust kicked across the table. The paper target card fluttered. A few men behind them flinched.
The woman did not.
Her rifle stayed pointed safely downrange.
Her breathing did not change.
Ryan leaned close with a mocking smile.
“Ma’am,” he said, “the rifle’s facing the wrong way.”
The woman calmly checked the chamber again, adjusted her grip, and settled the stock against her shoulder.
“No,” she said. “You’re standing on the wrong side of the lesson.”
The laughter behind them came late.
Uncertain.
Ryan’s smile faded.
For the first time, he looked at her stance instead of her shirt.
Feet placed perfectly.
Shoulders relaxed.
Trigger hand still.
May you like
No wasted movement.
Commander Brooks took one slow step forward.
