Chapter 3 - Live Comedy
Garrett was nationally ranked, heavily sponsored, and photographed often enough to believe visibility and skill were the same thing.
He wore a black sleeveless competition shirt, custom belt, mirrored glasses, and the relaxed smile of a man who had never expected public consequences. His group carried carbon-fiber rifles, laser rangefinders, and equipment cases worth more than Sarah’s truck.
Garrett looked through her open window.
His eyes moved from her faded jeans to her scuffed boots, then to the scar on her face.
“Let her in, Marcus,” he told the guard. “We could use live comedy on the long-range deck.”
The sponsors laughed.
Garrett leaned toward Sarah’s window.
“Trailer-trash Annie Oakley. Let’s see if that relic of yours can chamber a round without exploding.”
Sarah looked at him without expression.
“Move.”
The guard laughed but stepped away.
Ten minutes later, Sarah carried the wrapped rifle onto the thousand-yard deck.
Apex Ridge’s members watched before she reached the bench. The story had moved ahead of her: old truck, cheap clothes, taped rifle, scarred woman who did not know where she belonged.
A wealthy technology executive pulled cash from his wallet and dropped several bills onto the concrete bench.
“Five thousand says she can’t hit paper at a thousand.”
Another man grinned.
“I’ll make it ten if she scratches steel.”
Garrett moved into Sarah’s space and struck her shoulder with his own, pretending it was accidental.
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” he said. “Pack up your pipe and go home.”
Sarah unwrapped the burlap.
Laughter moved across the deck when they saw the tape.
May you like
She began checking the rifle.
The laughter stopped mattering.
