Chapter 3 - THE ANCIENT GRIP
Grace lowered herself smoothly onto her belly on the concrete shooting pad, resting the forward stock of the iron-sight rifle over a standard sandbag.
She adjusted her elbows against the rough concrete, extending her left leg slightly back to anchor her body against the recoil. Her movements were precise, relaxed, and deeply ingrained through thousands of hours of muscle memory.
Several feet behind her, Jack Reeves stood motionless, his broad frame casting a long shadow over the edge of her lane.
He wasn't looking at the steel target eight hundred yards downrange. He wasn't watching the wind flags fluttering gently along the boundary fence. His sharp gray eyes were locked entirely on Grace's hands as she set her grip around the wooden stock.
Unlike standard modern precision shooting techniques—where the rear hand loosely cradles the pistol grip—Grace wrapped her thumb straight up along the spine of the stock, while her three lower fingers formed a firm, angled brace against the wood. Her forward hand did not rest flat on the bag; instead, two fingers lightly pinched the front sling swivel in a very specific, old-school competitive target index.
Jack’s breath caught in his throat. His weathered hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.
The light, humorous atmosphere among the watching operators vanished the moment they saw Jack’s reaction. The Master Chief's demeanor had shifted from calm oversight to intense, rigid focus.
"Where did you learn that grip?" Jack demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, intense whisper that caused the nearby instructor to turn his head.
Grace kept her left eye closed and her right eye aligned with the rear aperture of the iron sights, her breathing slow and steady.
"My father," Grace answered quietly, her ribs expanding smoothly against the concrete floor as she inhaled. "He taught me when I was twelve. Said it was the only way to lock a long-barrel wooden platform without canting."
Jack went completely still, as if he had been struck by a physical force.
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The memory of a dusty range three decades earlier seemed to flash across his eyes—a memory of another shooter sitting on a wooden bench, holding a rifle with that exact same unique, unmistakable grip.
Grace settled her cheek against the smooth walnut stock. Her index finger rested safely along the side of the receiver, outside the trigger guard, as she aligned the front post with the tiny white dot sitting eight hundred yards away in the shimmering heat.
