Chapter 4 - Three Rounds
Sarah did not use the shooting bench.
She did not take the offered sandbags.
She stepped beyond the covered line into the shifting afternoon wind and studied the thousand-yard target through iron sights.
No scope.
No digital wind meter attached to the rifle.
No spotter.
The crosswind moved hard across the valley, then weakened briefly near the target berm. Heat shimmer rose from the ground. A hanging chain beneath the steel plate twisted unpredictably.
Garrett folded his arms.
“This should be good.”
Sarah chambered one round.
A man behind Garrett activated a high-lumen tactical strobe and pointed it toward her face.
The beam hit her eyes.
Several spectators laughed again.
Sarah did not lower the rifle.
Years earlier, she had learned to hold through dust, glare, exhaustion, and people actively trying to make her fail. A rich man’s flashlight was irritating.
Not dangerous.
She closed her left eye, settled behind the iron sight, and pressed the trigger.
The rifle cracked.
A second later, metal rang across the valley.
The bullet had hit the steel chain above the target plate.
Garrett laughed first.
“You missed.”
Sarah lowered the muzzle safely.
“The chain moved.”
“Lucky hit.”
Sarah chambered the second round.
“A fluke?” she said. “Let’s see your face when the chain snaps.”
The second shot hit the same section.
The chain jerked violently.
The crowd’s laughter thinned.
May you like
Garrett stopped smiling.
Sarah chambered the final round.
