The silence at the range was deafening. Rachel’s jaw practically unhinged, her arrogant smirk replaced by sheer, blood-drained panic.
“F-fifty dollars,” Rachel stammered, her voice cracking as she instinctively reached for her pockets. “That was… a lucky grouping.”
Commander Harris didn’t even look at her. He marched past the trembling champion and pressed a button on a handheld remote. The paper target dropped away, revealing a reinforced steel pillar seventy yards out. Bolted to the metal was a high-tech, biometric lockbox.
Or, rather, what was left of it.
Elena’s shots hadn’t just hit the paper bullseye. They had threaded the exact same hole, millimeter-perfect, completely shattering the lockbox’s internal cylinder.
“A bit flashy, Carter,” Harris grunted, his stern face unmoving. “I told you to secure the package quietly.”
Elena’s cold expression finally cracked into a smirk. She reached into her cargo pants and pulled out a single, scuffed brass casing she’d swept off the concrete earlier—the entire reason she was playing the janitor. With a flick of her thumb, the false casing popped open, revealing a glowing micro-drive. The cartel mole had dropped it exactly where intelligence said they would.
“I was being quiet, Commander,” Elena said smoothly, tossing the heavy bolt-action rifle directly into Rachel’s panicked, flailing arms. “But the local wildlife got loud.”
Rachel buckled under the weapon’s weight, staring up at the ‘cleaning lady’ in absolute terror. The crowd of so-called professionals instinctively backed away, parting like the Red Sea.
Elena turned and walked toward the idling black SUV. She paused, glancing over her shoulder at the paralyzed champion.
“Keep your fifty, Rachel,” Elena called out, climbing into the passenger seat. “You’re going to need it to buy back your dignity.”
The SUV roared away, leaving the world’s best shooters staring in awe at the woman who had just taken out the trash.