Chapter 4 - Eight Hundred Yards of Revenge“You need to withdraw from the competition.”
Special Agent Ellis spoke as though the answer should have been obvious.
We were standing outside my motel room, beneath a sky that was turning pale orange.
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Tara, the records we've uncovered may connect a major defense contractor to a suppressed military incident. You're now receiving anonymous calls. This isn't simply a shooting championship anymore.”
“It stopped being simple when an admiral put his boot on my paperwork.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
Ellis folded her arms.
“Your safety matters.”
“My mother's life matters, too.”
She studied me for several seconds.
Then she sighed.
“I can't order you to withdraw. But I can ask you to report any further threats immediately.”
“I will.”
“And do not confront Victor Hale about these records.”
I looked toward my truck.
“No promises about what I'll say if he approaches me.”
“Tara.”
“I won't do anything reckless.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I almost smiled.
“Nothing unnecessarily reckless.”
By nine the next morning, the championship grounds were crowded again.
News about General Mercer's appearance had spread across military social media. Reporters gathered behind the barriers, hoping to capture another confrontation.
A few people recognized me as I walked past.
One older Marine nodded respectfully.
A young woman wearing an Army veteran's shirt raised her hand.
“Good luck, Master Sergeant.”
I thanked her.
It was a strange feeling.
Yesterday, people had laughed when Crawford called me a Walmart sniper.
Today, strangers wanted photographs.
I didn't particularly enjoy either kind of attention.
I just wanted to shoot.
The second round had been modified to eight hundred yards, with controlled mechanical crosswinds affecting designated sections of the range.
Independent safety officials had approved a revised version of the stage, though the circumstances surrounding the change remained under investigation.
Evelyn Brooks had personally confirmed that the scoring standards would remain identical for every competitor.
Five shots.
Fifty possible points.
Marine Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Calloway approached as I inspected my equipment.
“You know,” he said, “most people would be enjoying their sudden celebrity.”
“Most people aren't trying to concentrate with fifty-seven rifles nearby.”
He smiled.
“Fair point.”
He glanced toward the sponsor tent.
“Crawford's been talking to Victor Hale all morning.”
“That doesn't surprise me.”
“Does it concern you?”
“Yes.”
He waited.
I closed my rifle case.
“But not enough to miss.”
Calloway laughed quietly.
“I'm beginning to like you, Wells.”
“Try not to let it affect your score.”
He saluted jokingly and walked away.
The first competitors struggled with the modified conditions.
Several experienced shooters recorded lower scores than they had during the opening round.
The wind machines produced inconsistent gusts within the designated test area, while natural wind farther downrange added another layer of uncertainty.
By the time Calloway finished, he had recorded forty-seven points.
A former Army sniper named Marcus Vale scored a perfect fifty.
Vale was thirty-eight, broad-shouldered, and sponsored by Hale Precision Systems.
He wore an expensive competition jacket and carried equipment that probably cost more than my annual hardware-store salary.
But unlike Crawford, he treated other competitors with respect.
As I passed him, he nodded toward the range.
“Wind's shifting faster than expected.”
“I noticed.”
“Good luck.”
“You too.”
Then I walked to Lane Twelve.
Crawford stood on the raised platform with his arms crossed.
He no longer made jokes into the microphone.
That almost disappointed me.
I settled behind my rifle.
The old familiar rhythm returned.
A steady breath.
The distant target.
A world reduced to the things I could control.
The signal sounded.
My first shot landed cleanly.
Ten points.
The second struck just inside the scoring boundary.
Ten.
A sudden gust caught the third.
Nine.
I waited.
Not long enough for the crowd to become impatient.
Just long enough.
The fourth shot landed perfectly.
Ten.
The final shot caught the edge of the inner scoring zone.
Nine.
The official checked the target system.
“Forty-eight out of fifty.”
A murmur spread through the grandstand.
The leaderboard updated.
TARA WELLS: 98.
MARCUS VALE: 98.
DANIEL CALLOWAY: 96.
I was tied for first place.
And considering what Crawford had done to the second round, that felt like a victory.
Vale approached me as I cleared my rifle.
“Nice shooting.”
“You too.”
He offered his hand.
I shook it.
“Whatever happens in the final,” he said, “I'd rather win against somebody who earned her place.”
I looked toward Crawford.
“So would I.”
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine the prize ceremony.
Not the cameras.
Not the trophy.
Just a bank transfer.
A phone call to Atlanta.
The sound of my mother laughing when I told her we could finally move forward.
Then a voice shouted from the scoring tent.
“Hold on! That's not right!”
I turned.
Priya Shah, the competition's civilian scoring director, was staring at her computer monitor.
Her face had gone pale.
The leaderboard flickered.
My first-round score changed.
Fifty became forty.
My overall total dropped from ninety-eight to eighty-eight.
Marcus Vale moved into first place.
The announcer hesitated.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing a scoring adjustment concerning Lane Twelve.”
I walked toward the officials' table.
“Adjustment?”
Priya looked at me.
“I didn't authorize this.”
Across the range, Crawford stood beside Victor Hale.
Neither man looked particularly surprised.
Evelyn hurried into the scoring booth.
I followed her.
Priya pointed toward the screen.
“The system says the original target calibration was invalid and ten points must be deducted.”
“Who entered that?”
She opened the audit history.
A username appeared.
LPRICE_ADMIN.
Competition Operations.
Evelyn's expression hardened.
“Lena Price?”
Priya nodded.
“She has administrative access.”
I leaned closer.
Another line appeared beneath the change.
Adjustment requested by event command authority.
Then a third line.
Supporting documentation pending.
I slowly straightened.
The crowd outside was becoming restless.
Crawford had tried to remove me before I fired.
He had changed the competition conditions.
Now somebody was rewriting the scores.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Are we actually having a shooting championship?”
She said nothing.
I glanced through the window toward the admiral.
“Or did somebody decide the winner before I got here?”
Before Evelyn could respond, Priya opened another audit entry.
Her hand stopped moving.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?” Evelyn asked.
May you like
Priya swallowed.
“The system isn't just changing Tara's score. Somebody scheduled a second correction for the championship final.”
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