The laughter started before Private Olivia Mercer even touched the rifle.
Chapter 1
The laughter started before Private Olivia Mercer even touched the rifle.
It rolled across the sun-baked training range in ugly little bursts, following her from the equipment table toward the firing line while the morning wind pulled at the sleeves of her camouflage uniform.
The only woman in the platoon had just been assigned to sniper training.
And apparently everyone had something to say about it.
“She won’t last an hour.”
“She’s too small for that rifle.”
“Someone make sure medical is ready when the recoil sends her flying.”
More laughter.
Olivia heard every word.
She gave them nothing.
At twenty-four, she stood only five-foot-five. She was lean rather than imposing, with dark-blonde hair secured in a regulation bun and blue-gray eyes that seemed to notice everything while revealing almost nothing.
She did not glare at the men behind her.
She did not defend herself.
She simply kept walking.
That calm seemed to bother them more than anger would have.
Sergeant
Dalton stood near the firing line with a clipboard beneath one arm. He had the expression of a man who had seen too many recruits arrive believing confidence could substitute for experience.
“Mercer.”
Olivia stopped.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“You understand this isn’t basic qualification?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Wind, distance, breathing, trigger discipline. Tiny mistakes here become enormous mistakes downrange.”
“I understand.”
Dalton glanced toward the precision rifle lying on the mat.
“You ever used one before?”
Olivia paused.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Where?”
Her expression barely changed.
“Home.”
Someone behind Dalton snorted.
A few soldiers laughed again.
Dalton didn’t.
He studied Olivia for another second, clearly wanting to ask more, but another recruit had already been called to the firing line.
The first shooter dropped onto his mat.
CRACK.
Wide right.
CRACK.
Low.
His third shot missed the center completely.
He sat up with a curse.
“This wind is trash.”
Another soldier grinned.
“Sure,
blame the wind.”
The next recruit performed slightly better.
Another clipped center mass.
One finished his group and stood while his friends slapped him on the shoulder as if he had just won a medal.
Dalton made notes without reacting.
Then his finger stopped on the roster.
“Mercer. Line one.”
The mood shifted instantly.
Not into respect.
Into anticipation.
Two recruits quietly took out their phones.
One whispered, “Get this.”
Olivia walked toward the mat.
She lowered herself onto the dirt, settled into the prone position and pulled the rifle into her shoulder.
Magazine.
Bolt.
Scope.
Wind.
Her hands moved with unsettling familiarity.
Dalton noticed.
“Mercer.”
Olivia glanced sideways.
“Where did you say you learned this?”
“I didn’t say, Sergeant.”
The recruits chuckled.
Dalton’s expression hardened.
Olivia placed her cheek against the stock.
Everything else disappeared.
The laughter.
The phones.
The men waiting for her to fail.
She watched the
distant flag.
Dry grass bent beneath the wind.
Dust crossed the firing lane.
Olivia inhaled slowly.
Held it.
Exhaled.
Her finger took up the trigger.
CRACK.
The electronic target flashed.
Center.
Not near center.
Perfect center.
Somebody behind her muttered, “Huh.”
Dalton frowned.
“Do it again.”
Olivia worked the action.
Settled.
Breathed.
CRACK.
Center.
The second hole almost touched the first.
The laughter stopped.
Dalton stepped toward the monitor.
“Probably luck.”
Olivia heard him.
She said nothing.
Third round.
Breathe.
Settle.
Press.
CRACK.
The display flashed again.
This time nobody spoke.
The third bullet had cut into the same tiny opening.
The soldier recording her slowly lowered his phone.
“No way.”
Olivia chambered a fourth round.
“Mercer.”
She remained still.
“Hold.”
Her finger lifted from the trigger.
Dalton moved toward the monitor, then looked downrange.
“What’s your wind call?”
“Three-quarter value from nine o’clock.”
“Speed?”
“Seven.”
She watched the distant flag.
“Dropping to five.”
A moment later, the flag softened.
Dalton stared at it.
Then at her.
She was right.
Something in his face changed.
“Fire.”
Olivia inhaled.
Exhaled.
CRACK.
The fourth round struck.
For several seconds, no one on the range moved.
Dalton stared at the monitor.
His jaw tightened.
“Four rounds…”
Olivia slowly lifted her head from the stock.
Dalton stepped closer to the screen as if proximity might change what he was seeing.
It didn’t.
“Four rounds through one hole.”
A recruit whispered behind him.
“That’s impossible.”
Olivia turned just enough for them to see her face.
She wasn’t smiling.
She wasn’t celebrating.
She looked almost exactly as she had before the first shot.
“No,” she said quietly.
“It’s just difficult.”
And for the first time since Olivia Mercer had walked onto that range, absolutely nobody laughed.
Chapter complete
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A few more worlds to get lost in after this chapter.