Goddess Rising (25 page)

You’ve got this,
she told herself.
Just ignore the thirty pairs of eyes on you right now, including Sasser. Including Wes and that goddamn camera…

“You each get six shots,” Sasser explained to the final five. “Best out of six gets an automatic pass into the next round.”

Sasser held out a handful of straws, extending his hand out to her.

“Ladies first.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sam drew her straw, then the rest of the cadets after her.

Alejandro drew the short straw. Didn’t seem to bother him though.

He checked his rifle before smacking the magazine into place, smoothly dropping to his knees on the matting. He flicked the bipod legs out and eased himself close to the earth, the stock close to him. He made the adjustments as he looked through the scope, calm as could be. Sasser held up field glasses, a signal he was ready when Alejandro was.

Everything seemed to slow and quiet in the field, like everyone was holding their breath. The air felt strangely still as all eyes fell on the target, the air thick with anticipation.

Alejandro pulled the trigger and the massive rifle kicked hard, the boom drawing the attention of everyone within a few hundred yards.

“Good, but not good enough,” Sasser muttered, lowering the field glasses.

Sam looked through a pair that was passed to her. Alejandro had caught the right edge of the paper, but only just. Still, for a first shot at that distance, it was impressive as hell.

Sam tried to calm the flutter of nervousness in her stomach.

Alejandro fired again, and the rifle kicked, blowing dust off the mat from the muzzle.

Sam looked up.

Left shoulder. Overcorrected, but a good hit nonetheless.

The cadets murmured until Sasser held his hand up.

Silence descended again over the range.

Sam stood to the side, watching Alejandro as he relaxed, finger tightening around the trigger even as he breathed out, long and slow.

The blast from the muzzle was like a lightning crack, and Sam knew he’d hit the target before she saw it.

The throat.

Kill shot.

Alejandro was getting better with each pull. Calmer and more confident. He missed the last shot, and that was only because he’d gotten cocky and fired again too quickly.

“Five on,” Sasser assessed. “Two kill shots,” he added, his voice hard but approving.

Alejandro didn’t respond, all business, standing up and stepping back as another cadet replaced him.

Six rounds later, two on the paper, but none on the target, everyone knew the second cadet was disqualified. Good, but not good enough.

A third cadet moved to his place on the matting.

Four on the target, but only one kill shot. Possibly moving forward, but that depended on Sam and the final cadet.

Would it be her day or would it be his?
Alejandro remained the horse to beat.

Sasser handed her the magazine. Sam lifted the heavy rifle, gently clicking it into place.

The pressure was stifling. Sam felt like every muscle in her neck was locked up tight and tense as she slowly opened the rifle’s bipod legs. She felt the individual weight of every eye on her, and she didn’t like it. She’d never had an audience like this. Not at the ranch. Not during other training exercises. But then, the stakes had never been so high either.

Jack rabbits and rattlesnakes
, she reminded herself. Just another day out at the ranch, shooting with Uncle Grant. Sam lay down on the mat next to the rifle.

“Shit, that rifle’s nearly bigger than she is,” someone whispered loudly.

A snicker in the background, rippling through the group. Murmurs.

“Quiet,” Sasser told the group, stern.

Sam eased her cheek against the stock, put her eye about an inch behind the scope. She stared hard at the target, a black-and-white silhouette of a man’s head and torso through the fine data lines. She’d been watching the wind while the other cadets were firing. She saw the wind coming in slow and steady from the west just by looking at the trees. She aimed high like her Uncle had taught her, accounting for the curvature of the projectile over the distance, the rifle aimed high and slightly to the left to counteract the drag from the wind.

“The only thing that travels in a straight line is light, Sammy.”

“Yes, Uncle Grant.”

“Imagine that bullet traveling over the distance. You’ve got to give it time to get there. Two to three seconds of drag, gusts and the curve of the earth. Imagine you’re the bullet.”

Sam took a deep breath, released it and pulled the trigger.

The stock kicked so hard against her shoulder, she had to clench her teeth to keep from making a sound. She’d have a bruise there the size of a baseball within hours. The sound of the shot clapped and rolled back across the range like distant thunder. Sam struggled not to wince as she heard the murmurs. She couldn’t hear the words as she waited for the dust to settle around the scope, but she could hear the tone. She knew from the tenor of the comments she’d missed the shot.

Shit.
Embarrassment and self-recrimination made her cheeks pink. She was better than this. She’d been shooting for years now, training tirelessly to get better and better. And now, when she needed to prove it, she was biting it. Badly. And in front of everybody.
Shit.

When the target finally became visible through the settling dust, pristine and unmarked, Sam forced herself to take another deep breath and calm the hell down.

Focus, Sammy. Calm down and focus.
She imagined Uncle Grant’s kind blue eyes, his weathered face with the crinkles at the corners from squinting too much under the hot Texas sun.

Good shooting’s about being calm enough to make the shot with accuracy. If you’re being charged by a bull, you don’t flip out. You breathe, focus, and take the right shot at the right time—cause you probably only get the one, Sammy. So make it good.

Sam closed her eyes and counted her heartbeats until they slowed, until she could hear nothing else but her own internal metronome. Everyone behind and around her melted away.

Jackrabbits and rattlesnakes—just another day at the ranch.

Sam opened her eyes and zeroed in.

September—Saturday Morning

Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas

W E S L E Y

T
he anticipation permeating
the range was so thick, you could cut the hot, dry air with a knife.

Wes stood in the back of the group and to the side, eyes on Samantha as she lay prone on the ground—her lithe, slim body snugged close to the cannon they called a rifle. He’d dropped his camera after she missed the first shot, angry at the group for snickering. The whispered
I-told-you-so’s
and conceited smirks made his hands curl into fists.

He knew better than to take any photos while she was shooting, sure that the whir and click of the camera would only be distracting. He felt like the only person in her corner about now. And now that he was there, listening to the whispers and seeing the eye-rolls for himself, Wes was starting to realize what she’d meant when she’d said he’d only be putting a target on her back by doing this story on her.

Samantha was the only female who’d made it into the final round of the rifle marksmanship test. No one else had even come close. He’d wanted to whoop and cheer for her, but instead had remained silent, invisible in the background, photographing and celebrating her triumph from a safe distance. But when she missed the first shot of the final round, he started to truly worry. Wes worried he was witnessing her getting knocked out of the trials. A public shaming. One he’d have to document at length.

Sam waited for what felt like ten minutes, utterly still on the mat. Wes felt the restlessness of the cadets around him, saw them shift on their feet as they wondered why the hell she was taking so long.

Wes lifted his camera, focusing in on her through the viewfinder. She was breathing slowly—very slowly—body loose and relaxed, almost like she was resting. He realized then she was calming herself down, filtering out the noise and the agita. It was just her, the cannon, and the distant target, barely visible in the distance—a perfect, lethal trinity.

Samantha pulled the trigger suddenly, and the heavy blast of the shot seemed to thump right off of her, ricocheting from her body across the heat-scorched landscape and rebounding in a heavy echo.

While the group’s attention snapped to the target, Wes’s lens stayed on Samantha. He zoomed in. Took a shot of her precision focus even as the cadets murmured, clearly impressed with her hit. Wes watched her breathe slowly. One, two,
steady
… Her body relaxed against the earth, her hands still, eye narrowed and focused.

Sam fired again.

The crowd twittered, murmuring.

Wes didn’t need to look at the target to know she’d made the third shot.

He watched her take a long slow breath again before taking the fourth shot.

By now he’d caught onto her rhythm, watched her breathing. In and out. Smooth like a cylinder. As soon as she released the breath, she fired, the buck from the massive rifle absorbed by her body, the swirl of dust cloaking her as she waited for the perfect moment to fire again, taking her time, even as the murmurs grew louder, then dropped off again.

Everyone was aware she was in the zone, the tide of approval turning in her favor, a silent acquiescence that spoke volumes as cadets stepped back, instinctively giving her space.

Samantha breathed steadily and fired again.

The crowd stared, too stunned to whisper, but Wes concentrated only on her, willing her to nail this last and final shot. He held his breath even as she released hers.

The thundering boom of her sixth shot seemed to ricochet off the trees surrounding the range, with a massive, sonic ripple. Wes swung his lens toward the target even as Samantha sat up smoothly, popping the empty magazine out before pushing the bolt home, waiting for the verdict while Sasser stared out at the target through his binoculars.

Wes shifted the lens, pressed down on the shutter as the camera focused in on the incredible distance, and he realized exactly what he was staring at after a few swift adjustments of his telephoto lens.

“Holy shit.” The words were out of his mouth as he took it in.

Two shots to the head, three to center mass. A performance worthy of a seasoned military sharpshooter, out of a nineteen-year-old girl from the middle of nowhere, Texas.

Wes’s heart felt near full to bursting with pride. He immediately snapped off a few shots, caught an excellent one of Samantha looking up at the hot blue sky with the relaxed posture of someone who was just enjoying the weather. He captured Sasser’s split-second expression of admiration and surprise, with Alejandro standing beside him, trying hard not to look angry.

A sudden smattering of applause erupted before the whole group joined in. Sam was enveloped in back pats and
atta girls!
until Sasser quieted the group with the swipe of his hand. He turned and looked at the final cadet as his lieutenant handed him his rifle.

“Good luck beating that,” Sasser told him, irony tingeing his tone.

Wes felt himself grinning.

Ain’t no good luck to it. Sammy had this one in the bag.

*

September—Saturday Afternoon

Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas

S A M A N T H A

“¡Órale
,
jaina!
You
crushed it out there!” Rita exclaimed as she squeezed Sam’s neck again for like the tenth time.

“You didn’t do so bad out there yourself, girl,” Sam replied, grinning. “You nailed the pistol marksmanship.”

“I’m from the hood in Chicago,” Rita reminded her as they walked toward the chow hall for lunch. “Of course I was going to nail the pistol marksmanship.”

“Either way, you and I have definitely made it into the next round.” Sammy high-fived her.

“Man, I wish we had some tequila,” Rita sighed as they got into the lineup. “We should celebrate.”