Page 20 of Specter Bred

The fifteen hundred yard silhouette sat on the horizon, barely visible. It was the same target that had humbled almost every candidate before me, and cost Redwood three shots.

I settled deeper into the stock and watched the wind.

Then I squeezed the trigger.

My first shot struck steel.

A murmur rippled through the recruits.

The second missed low.

I adjusted.

The third hit.

Then the fourth.

By now the entire range had gone silent.

Twenty-one hits.

One round remained.

One shot to beat Redwood.

I took a slow breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle bucked against my shoulder.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then the steel answered.

The distant ping echoed across the range.

I let go of my rifle and rose to my feet.

No cheers.

No applause.

Just silence. This type of silence occurred when people had to reevaluate something they thought they understood.

Twenty-two hits. One more than Redwood. Across the range, his expression had darkened into something murderous.

As for Graves, I still couldn't see his eyes behind the mirrored aviators, but for the first time since arriving at Fairfield, I got the distinct impression that I'd surprised him. Maybe I'd even impressed him. And somehow, that felt infinitely better than pissing off Miles.

As I passed Graves on my way back from the firing line, he gave a small nod toward the scoreboard.

"Well, Teacup," he said. "Looks like you're slightly less useless than I thought."

"Thank you, sir," I bit out, accepting the backhanded compliment for what it was.

"Hayes, you're up next!"

The beta immediately started toward the starting line without a hint of nerves, smiling like an absolute idiot. I watched him exchange a few words with some of the other recruits gathered around the weapons table. They laughed at something he said, and one of them even clapped him on the shoulder.

For some reason, it irritated me. It shouldn't have, but it did.