Rachel’s face burned crimson. Desperate to salvage her pride in front of the silent, staring crowd, she slammed a crisp fifty-dollar bill onto the folding table.
“Paper targets don’t shoot back,” Rachel sneered, her voice trembling as she pointed downrange at the steel target rig 800 yards out. The mechanical cables held a metal wire no thicker than a shoelace. “Beginner’s luck. Cut the suspension wire. If you can.”
Before Rachel could even finish her sentence, Elena didn’t just aim—she fluidly cycled the bolt of the heavy black rifle, her brown right eye locking into the scope with terrifying deadness.
*Crack.*
Sparks showered in the distance. The massive steel target crashed to the dirt. She hadn’t just cut the wire; she had snapped the steel bolt holding the entire rig together.
The bleachers were dead silent. Rachel’s arms fell limply to her sides, her jaw unhinging in a mask of absolute, paralyzed shock.
Elena picked up the fifty-dollar bill, walked over, and tucked it neatly into the collar of Rachel’s flashy racing suit. “Keep it,” Elena whispered with a cold, smug smirk. “You’re going to need a new hobby.”
Commander Harris finally moved. He didn’t smile. He simply opened the heavy armored door of the black SUV.
“Vacation is over, Carter,” Harris barked, his voice carrying the sheer, crushing weight of military authority. “We found the cartel’s mole. His jet leaves international airspace in twenty minutes. I need you on that roof.”
Elena tossed the sniper rifle onto the table. She didn’t look back at the bleachers, nor at the famous champion who was still frozen like a statue. As she stepped into the SUV, Elena glanced over her shoulder one last time.
“Someone sweep up my brass.”