CHAPTER 1 — THE SHOTS THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST

She walks to the firing line without asking permission.

That alone earns raised eyebrows.

Most people hesitate at the painted red line, waiting for a nod, a command, some scrap of approval. She doesn’t. Her boots stop exactly at regulation distance, toes square, shoulders relaxed. The M110 comes together in her hands with quiet efficiency—bolt carrier seated, pins locked, optic checked.

No wasted movement. No flourish.

Captain Mercer leans back against the bench, arms crossed, grin firmly in place. “Someone want to start the stopwatch? I’m curious how long this takes before she asks for help.”

The woman ignores him.

She settles into prone like she’s sinking into water—slow, controlled, bone structure aligned without conscious effort. The rifle rests against her shoulder, not forced, not braced like a novice trying to tame recoil. It’s familiar there. Belongs there.

Colonel Hargrove’s fingers tighten on the radio.

Blackwell raises a hand. “Range hot.”

Steel silhouettes stand far downrange, barely visible through heat shimmer. Eight hundred meters. At this distance, wind matters. Heartbeat matters. A breath taken half a second too late matters.

She exhales.

Four counts out.

The rifle cracks.

Once.

Then again.

Five times total.

Each shot spaced perfectly, not rushed, not tentative. The sound echoes off the concrete lanes, swallowed by desert air.

The target monitor flickers.

Then locks.

Five hits.

All center mass.

Not clustered. Not lucky.

Perfect.

The laughter dies mid-breath.

Mercer’s grin collapses into something ugly and confused. Someone whispers, “That’s… not possible.”

Blackwell steps forward, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him. “Run it again.”

The range tech swallows. “Sir… the system already verified the impacts.”

The woman clears the rifle, stands, and steps back from the line before anyone tells her to.

She doesn’t look proud.

She looks finished.

---

CHAPTER 2 — THE MARK ON HER ARM

Silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

Mercer recovers first. He always does. “Okay,” he says, sharp edge creeping into his voice, “that was impressive. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here without credentials.”

He steps closer. Too close.

“Show us your ID.”

She doesn’t move.

“No,” she says simply.

The word lands heavier than gunfire.

Blackwell’s patience snaps. “Captain.”

Mercer reaches out.

The instant his fingers close around her forearm, Colonel Hargrove’s breath catches.

“Captain—” Hargrove starts.

Too late.

Mercer yanks her sleeve up.

The tattoo is stark against her skin.

A geometric sniper reticle.

And beneath it, inked in matte black—

974

Hargrove goes pale.

Blackwell recognizes it a heartbeat later.

The color drains from his face.

That number isn’t decorative.

It’s not unit pride.

It’s not bravado.

It’s a designation.

A classification used only in programs that officially do not exist. Numbers assigned to operators who were never meant to be acknowledged, never meant to survive long enough to retire.

Mercer feels it before he understands it—the sudden shift in the air, the way everyone stopped breathing.

“What… is that?” he asks.

The woman pulls her arm free.

“That,” she says quietly, “is why I don’t give my rank.”

Hargrove finally keys his radio. Encrypted channel. One sentence.

“Control, this is Rangemaster. Lock the range. Now.”

---

CHAPTER 3 — THE RANK ABOVE GENERALS

Blackwell clears his throat, but his voice isn’t steady anymore. “That number… it was decommissioned.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies. “After my last mission.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m saying,” she cuts in, calm as ever, “that if my name appears in your logs, someone made a mistake.”

Mercer steps back. For the first time, uncertainty replaces arrogance. “You’re telling us you outrank—”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Then she meets Blackwell’s eyes.

“I’m telling you rank doesn’t apply.”

Hargrove walks forward now, slow, deliberate. He stops a respectful distance away—not close enough to crowd, not far enough to dismiss. He studies her face, the calm, the stillness.

“I thought they shut your program down,” he says softly.

“They shut the paperwork down,” she replies.

Blackwell swallows. The desert heat feels suddenly irrelevant. “What do you want?”

She looks past him, toward the targets.

“To shoot,” she says.

Then, after a pause—

“And to make sure no one forgets why numbers like mine exist.”

The wind shifts.

Somewhere far downrange, steel silhouettes sway gently, marked with fresh scars.

And for the first time in his decorated career, Major General Preston Blackwell understands something terrifying:

There are soldiers trained to fight wars.

And then there are soldiers trained to end them.