SEAL Admiral Asked Her Rank As A Joke — Until He Noticed Her Sniper Tattoo And Froze
Chapter 2
Theme:
Font Size:
24px
Brooks snorts. "Just here to shoot. You hear that, Admiral? She's just here to shoot." He turns to the others. "Hope she's got someone to hold her hand on the trigger. Recoil on these babies can be rough if you don't know what you're doing.""Maybe we should spot for her," another officer suggests, grinning. "Make sure she doesn't hurt herself or embarrass the Corps."Ellis shifts his weight, hand moving unconsciously toward the radio at his belt. He doesn't key it, not yet. But his attention is locked on the woman now, the way she's breathing: 4-4-4. Combat breathing. Box breathing. The kind they drill into you in very particular training pipelines. The kind most people don't know exists.He glances at her hands again—the grip she had on that bolt carrier, index and middle finger positioned exactly where they needed to be for a speed reassembly in low light conditions. He swallows hard.Kane straightens, hands on hips. "You're cleared to be on this range?""Yes, sir.""And you're planning to shoot today?""Yes, sir.""At what distance?"For the first time, something flickers across her face. Not quite a smile, more like the shadow of one, gone before it fully forms. "800 meters, sir."The laughter that follows is immediate and loud. Brooks actually slaps his knee. "800? Right. Okay." He looks at Kane. "Sir, with all due respect, I'd like to see this. For educational purposes, I think we could all use a good laugh after the morning briefings."Kane's expression doesn't change, but there's a glint in his eye—amusement maybe, or something harder. "By all means, Lieutenant, let's see what our mystery shooter can do." He gestures toward the firing line. "Please show us your skills."The woman stands without using her hands, rising in one smooth motion from cross-legged to standing. Her uniform is standard issue, slightly faded from washing. No name tape, no unit patch, nothing to identify her beyond the basic fact that she's military.She picks up the rifle, already reassembled, checks the chamber with a glance that takes less than a second, and walks to lane seven.Ellis is already moving toward that lane before he consciously decides to. His boots carry him closer, angling for a better view. Something is crawling up his spine—recognition maybe, or warning.The woman settles into position at the bench, rifle resting on the sandbag support. Her posture is textbook perfect: left hand under the forend, right hand on the grip, body squared behind the weapon. She makes one small adjustment to the rear bag, shifting it a fraction of an inch. Then she goes still.Brooks leans against the tower railing, arms crossed. "Somebody get her some extra ammo. She's going to need a lot of practice rounds to even get on paper at that distance.""Does she even know where the safety is?" someone asks."Probably thinks the scope is a telescope," another voice chimes in.Kane stands with his hands clasped behind his back, watching. His face is unreadable now. All the amusement has drained away, replaced by something else: wariness perhaps, or the beginning of a very different kind of attention.