The Heavy Black Bag
The dark zipper pulled open across the black nylon bag, uncovering a dull metal receiver.
Staff Sergeant Travis Kane shifted his weight on the bleachers, his mouth stretching wide as he called across the concrete divider. His head tilted back while his shoulders stayed squared in his desert fatigues.
A row of soldiers seated behind him leaned forward, their ball caps tipped down against the desert glare. Not one of them looked away from the folding table set beside the firing line.
Captain Olivia May did not glance toward the bleachers. She took hold of the rifle by the carrying frame, lifted the weight from the foam lining, and placed the bipod directly onto the rough plywood.
Kane spoke again, his teeth showing beneath the high desert sun as he remarked on the piece of machinery she had brought to the line. “Rank doesn’t guide a bullet,” he called out across the firing lanes.
May rested her palm flat against the metal housing. Her fingers slid down the checkering on the grip without a tremor.
“I’m aware,” she replied, her chin remaining level.
Lining Up The Reticle
May dropped her weight down onto the firing mat, resting her chest flat against the dusty ground. The sun hit the side of her temple, lighting a thin line of skin below her pinned hair.
She pulled the buttstock into the pocket of her shoulder and seated her cheek against the synthetic riser. Her right eye pressed near the rubber eye guard of the scope.
Up in the observation tower, an older officer in dress greens set his hands against the painted metal railing. A general in camouflage stood beside him, shoulders rigid.
“What did you see?” the officer asked, his jaw tight as he tracked the barrel below.
“I’ve seen someone use it before,” the general answered, his eyes fixed on the line where May lay completely still.
May lowered her thumb along the receiver and settled the pad of her index finger against the flat face of the trigger. She adjusted the side dial of the scope by two clicks, her knuckles barely shifting.
On the stands, Kane’s grin remained in place as he folded his arms behind his back. The soldiers around him were completely quiet, staring past the warning flags into the heat haze of the desert flats.
The Break Of The Trigger
A black silhouette target stood rigid hundreds of yards out on the pale clay, centered inside a small white ring.
May let her breath out slowly. The tip of her finger began to curve, taking up the first millimeters of slack on the metal bar.
The trigger released with a sharp mechanical snap, and the chamber erupted with a clean punch of dust from the ground beneath the muzzle.
The bullet shattered the dead center of the black cutout downrange, sending a dark ring flying straight through the painted target frame.
Kane’s lips closed together, his mouth flattening into a thin, straight line. His head drifted forward by an inch, eyes fixed straight out across the open plain.
Above on the observation platform, the officer in the green uniform stood with his chin tucked into his collar, his gaze locked down on the lone shooter as the smoke cleared above the mat.
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