Chapter 865
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and K.C. Bell understood the unspoken threat perfectly.
The afternoon sun did little to warm the chill that had settled over the training grounds. Sloane Hawke stood outside Jarrod’s office, requesting a formal meeting to discuss the training schedule.
This time, after a pointed delay, the door opened.
Jarrod was seated behind his large metal desk, a mountain of paperwork before him. He looked up as she entered, his expression as cold and remote as a distant planet. The morning’s confrontation might as well have happened in another lifetime.
Sloane delivered her report with crisp, military precision, detailing the squad’s progress and upcoming exercises. All the while, her eyes were scanning his face, searching for any crack in his composure, any hint of what he was thinking.
He listened without interruption, his gaze unwavering. When she finished, he gave a single, curt nod.
“Your methods, Instructor Hawke,” he said, his voice flat, “are… unconventional.”
A knot of apprehension tightened in Sloane’s stomach. “They are designed to identify the most resilient candidates in the shortest possible time, Colonel.”
His eyes narrowed, the grey irises hardening into chips of granite. “Ensure your methods do not result in non-combat attrition. I don’t want to see your name on an incident report.”
It was a clear, unmistakable warning. A line had been drawn.
But as Sloane processed the threat, she also heard what he didn’t say. He didn’t order her to stop. He didn’t tell her to back down. He told her not to get caught. A sick, triumphant thrill coursed through her. As long as she didn’t leave a permanent mark, he would allow it.
She left his office, her mind already racing, formulating a new, more elegant form of torture. She walked directly to the firing range, where Alpha squad was scheduled for rifle marksmanship.
Caroline and the others were already in their shooting lanes when Sloane arrived. Her presence was a physical force, sucking the air out of the space.
“Today,” Sloane announced, her voice ringing with authority, “we will be conducting a stress-fire exercise.”
She walked down the line, her boots crunching on the gravel, until she stood directly behind Caroline. She picked up the tablet displaying Caroline’s recent scores. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. The groupings were tight, precise. Near-perfect.
The surprise was quickly replaced by a fresh wave of jealous resentment.
“Impressive, Thompson,” Sloane said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “But a static range isn’t a battlefield.”
She addressed the entire squad, but her eyes never left Caroline. “To simulate the effects of combat fatigue and an elevated heart rate, Corporal Thompson will precede each five-shot group with fifty burpees.”
A collective, silent shock rippled through the recruits. It was a monstrous command. The violent, full-body exertion of fifty burpees would leave anyone gasping for air, their muscles screaming, their arms shaking uncontrollably. Hitting a target after that would be impossible. It was a setup for public failure.