Chapter 5 - THE WIND AND THE STANCE
A strong, sudden gust of wind swept across the open range from the treeline to the east.
Along the three-hundred-meter lane, the shifting air current caused the near wind flag at fifty meters to snap violently to the right, while the distant flag near the target berms at three hundred meters reeled to the left—a complex, dual-vector crosswind that made long-range marksmanship notoriously difficult even with high-end ballistic computers and magnified optics.
Ryan Cole smirked from the spectator rail, leaning toward Derek.
"She’s got a twenty-knot switching wind and bare iron sights," Ryan whispered. "She won't even hit the paper."
Elena remained completely oblivious to the spectators behind her.
She stood behind Lane 5, staring out at the distant, sun-bleached silhouette targets rising out of the heat waves near the far berm. She didn't look at a wind gauge, nor did she ask the range control officer for a weather update. Instead, her eyes moved systematically from the nearest red flag to the distant yellow flag, watching the subtle ripple of the dry grass along the perimeter fence.
Slowly, with absolute, practiced grace, she lifted the heavy wooden rifle.
She didn't slam the weapon into her shoulder. She settled it into her chest pocket with a mechanical ease that suggested the rifle was an extension of her own skeleton. Her left arm, wrapped tightly in the faded leather sling, locked into position beneath the wooden forend.
Then, her hand settled at a very specific spot on the scarred walnut stock.
Instead of gripping the rifle near the trigger guard or holding it loosely along the center, her left thumb rested flat against a small, barely visible, darkened gouge in the wood near the forward sling mount—a highly idiosyncratic, custom hand position designed to offset the natural barrel whip of that specific older receiver.
Her stance adjusted by half an inch. She turned her right foot slightly outward, lowering her center of gravity, sinking into a firing position that was impossibly stable, completely immune to the buffeting crosswind.
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Her breathing slowed. Her chest rose once, fell halfway, and stopped.
Behind her on the spectator line, the whispers, jokes, and quiet giggles among the junior soldiers began to falter. A strange, heavy calm descended over Lane 5—a focused, deadly aura that radiated from Elena’s static, unmoving silhouette.
