Chapter 852
A stunned silence fell over the entire group. They had just witnessed a divine intervention, a power play executed with surgical precision from miles away.
Melanie watched, her mind reeling. She finally understood. The Colonel’s protection of Caroline wasn’t just a passing interest. It was absolute. He was willing to publicly humiliate another officer to shield her.
Caroline herself was frozen. She looked at K.C., then in the direction Jarrod’s vehicle had disappeared. This protection felt less like a shield and more like a gilded cage, its bars closing tightly around her. She was at the center of a storm between Jarrod and Sloane, and it was suffocating her.
Sloane, trapped in a cage of public humiliation, finally spoke, her voice tight with fury. “…Dismissed.”
As the trainees began to stumble away, Melanie moved with purpose. She walked to Sloane’s side, her voice low and filled with a carefully crafted empathy.
“Instructor,” she murmured, “the Colonel seems… unusually lenient with certain people. It isn’t fair.”
The first seed of their unspoken alliance had been planted.
The next morning, the air on base was thick with unspoken tension. Sloane Hawke requested a meeting with Colonel Romero. She was told, through K.C. Bell’s impassive face, that the Colonel’s schedule was full.
She stood outside Jarrod’s office door for a long moment, the cold, bureaucratic dismissal echoing in her ears. Her fingernails dug into her palms, leaving deep crescent moons in the skin.
She turned and walked away, a cruel smile touching her lips. If she couldn’t reach the man, she would leave her mark on his project.
Caroline stood on the firing line, the weight of a standard-issue pistol feeling unfamiliar in her hand. She deliberately kept her distance from the other recruits, trying to process the events of the previous night. Jarrod’s protection was a double-edged sword. It kept her safe, but it also painted a massive target on her back, isolating her. She felt an ever-growing, desperate need to rely only on herself.
Sloane arrived at the range, her presence immediately silencing all chatter. She announced the day’s training: pistol marksmanship and malfunction drills. She would be the primary instructor.
She moved down the line of shooters, her eyes sharp and critical, inspecting each recruit’s stance and grip.
Then she stopped beside Caroline.
The entire range seemed to hold its breath.
Sloane looked at Caroline’s grip, a perfect, textbook two-handed hold she had spent hundreds of hours perfecting at the Farm. A flicker of surprise crossed Sloane’s face, so quick it was almost imaginary, before it was masked by a look of professional condescension.
“Your grip is wrong, Thompson,” Sloane said, her voice loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Caroline froze. It wasn’t wrong. It was perfect.
Before she could even form a protest, Sloane’s hands were on hers. She forcefully rearranged Caroline’s fingers, her touch firm and invasive.
She moved Caroline’s supporting thumb into a position that made a cold dread snake up Caroline’s spine. It was placed directly behind the slide of the pistol.