Chapter 853

It was a catastrophically incorrect grip. A rookie mistake. Anyone with a basic knowledge of firearms knew that when the gun was fired, the slide would recoil backward like a razor blade, slicing through the thumb in a bloody, painful injury known as a “slide bite.”

Caroline understood instantly. This wasn’t training. This was a deliberate, calculated attempt to injure her, sanctioned under the guise of instruction.

Sloane patted her hand, a sickeningly patronizing gesture. “There,” she said, her voice smooth and authoritative. “This maximizes recoil control. Remember that feeling.”

Her words were cloaked in professional jargon, but the malice behind them was a palpable force. Instructor Sharpe, standing nearby, saw the grip and her eyes widened in shock, but she remained silent, unwilling to challenge Sloane.

Caroline’s mind went into overdrive. If she corrected the grip, she would be guilty of insubordination. If she obeyed, she would be maimed.

She chose a third option.

She looked at Sloane, her eyes wide with a carefully feigned expression of confusion and dutiful obedience. She played the part of a recruit who trusted her instructor implicitly.

“Yes, Instructor,” she said, her voice a perfect imitation of gratitude. “Thank you for the correction.”

Sloane’s smile was thin and satisfied. She was pleased with Caroline’s apparent stupidity. She stepped back, her voice ringing out across the range.

“Shooters on the line, prepare to fire.”

Caroline raised the pistol, deliberately letting a slight tremor enter her arms. She made her breathing shallow and quick, a perfect portrait of a nervous novice.

She couldn’t fire the weapon correctly; that would expose her true skill level. But she couldn’t let the slide tear her thumb apart either.

She had to stage an accident. A perfect, believable accident that she would direct herself.

She took aim at the paper target downrange, her finger resting on the trigger, her mind as cold and clear as ice. She waited for the command.

“Fire!”

Sloane’s command echoed across the range, followed by a cacophony of gunshots.

In the split second she squeezed the trigger, Caroline executed her plan with flawless precision.

Instead of fighting the pistol’s recoil, she let it happen. She relaxed her wrist, allowing the muzzle to jump upward violently. Simultaneously, in a movement too fast for the naked eye to properly track, she yanked her supporting thumb backward, clearing the path of the recoiling slide by a mere fraction of an inch.

To the outside observer, it looked like a classic case of a novice being terrified by the gun’s kick.

To complete the illusion, she used the nail of her now-free thumb to dig a sharp, deep scratch into the back of her other hand, the one still gripping the pistol.

The weapon, now “uncontrolled,” flew from her grasp and clattered onto the shooting bench in front of her with a loud, metallic bang.

Caroline let out a short, sharp cry of what sounded like genuine fear and pain. She staggered back a step, her eyes wide with shock.

She looked down at her hand, at the thin line of red that was already welling up from the self-inflicted scratch. Her face was a perfect mask of fright and agony.

It was a masterclass in deception. A flawless performance.