Chapter 866
Brenna opened her mouth to protest, but a sharp, almost imperceptible shake of Caroline’s head silenced her.
Caroline knew arguing was pointless. It would be framed as cowardice, as an unwillingness to meet a challenge. She looked at Sloane, her own expression a placid, unreadable mask.
Without a word, she set down her rifle.
She moved to the open space beside her shooting lane and began.
Her form was perfect. Each burpee was a fluid, powerful motion, a squat, a push-up, a leap. She moved with a speed and efficiency that was breathtaking. The other recruits watched in stunned silence. This wasn’t the performance of a struggling soldier; it was the display of a world-class athlete.
After the fiftieth rep, she stood up. Her chest was heaving, sweat dripping from her chin and soaking the collar of her uniform. She picked up her rifle. As she brought it to her shoulder, a fine tremor ran through her exhausted arms.
Sloane’s lips curved into a smug, satisfied smile. This was it. The moment of humiliation.
Caroline closed her eyes. For three seconds, she stood perfectly still. Her mind retreated to a quiet, internal space, a place forged in the brutal training of the Farm. She focused on her breathing, slowing her racing heart, forcing oxygen into her screaming muscles. A technique for shooting under extreme duress, drilled into her until it was pure muscle memory.
She opened her eyes. The tremor was gone. Her gaze was as cold and steady as a surgeon’s. The world narrowed to the front sight post and the distant target.
She raised the rifle.
Squeezed the trigger.
The shot was a clean, sharp crack.
Dead center. Bullseye.
The firing range was utterly silent, save for the faint ringing in everyone’s ears. The single, perfect shot hung in the air, a testament to an impossible feat.
Sloane’s smile evaporated, replaced by a mask of disbelief and raw, undiluted fury. She had been publicly defied, not with words, but with a display of skill that bordered on supernatural.
She strode downrange to the target, yanking it from its holder as if to personally interrogate the single hole punched through its center. The evidence was irrefutable.
She marched back to Caroline, her face a thundercloud. She had no grounds for a technical reprimand. Caroline had followed the order and exceeded the standard. So she resorted to a different weapon.
Leaning in close, her voice a venomous whisper meant only for Caroline, she hissed, “You got lucky. Or did you spend a lot of time on your back practicing for someone before you enlisted?”
The insinuation was vile, a direct accusation that Caroline’s skills were a product of trying to impress a man, Jarrod.
As she spoke, a faint scent drifted from Sloane’s uniform. Cedar and leather. The same scent that permeated Jarrod’s office, his clothes. The smell of proximity, of shared space, of history Caroline had not been allowed to understand. A wave of nausea rolled through Caroline’s stomach.