Chapter 6 - Sabotage and Steel
At two o'clock sharp, the main arena was packed to absolute capacity.
Over twelve hundred spectators filled the tiered grandstands. Bleachers had been brought in from the outdoor fields to accommodate the overflow crowd. Television vans from ESPN, CBS, and local affiliates crowded the parking lot, their satellite dishes raised toward the gray afternoon sky.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the public address system:
*“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to this special exhibition challenge! In Lane One, representing Apex Armament, three-time Regional Champion... Vanessa Cole!”*
A roar went up from the crowd. Vanessa walked out onto the emerald-green turf of the dynamic range, waving to the cameras with practiced charm. Her sponsor-covered jersey shimmered in the spotlights.
*“And in Lane Two... independent challenger... Maya Ortiz!”*
The crowd fell into an expectant, confused murmur.
Maya walked onto the lane wearing the same dark work pants and worn leather boots she had worn that morning. The only difference was that she had rolled the sleeves of her gray work shirt up to her elbows, revealing pale, crisscrossed scars along her forearms—scars from shrapnel and hot brass that told stories no one in that civilian crowd could decipher.
In her right hand, she carried a battered black plastic case containing the range’s rental Beretta.
The head judge stepped forward to explain the rules.
“The match consists of three dynamic stages,” the judge announced. “Stage One: Ten falling steel plates at twenty-five yards, speed-draw format. Stage Two: Tactical barricade clearing, ten paper targets with hostile-and-hostage configurations. Stage Three: The long-range gong—five shots at three hundred yards from an unsupported prone position. Lowest cumulative time with highest accuracy takes the purse!”
Vanessa stepped up to Lane One. Her stance was picture-perfect, honed by five years of country club coaching.
“Shooter ready?” the electronic timer beeped.
“Ready,” Vanessa said coldly.
*BEEP!*
Vanessa’s hand blurred. The Apex Sovereign cleared the holster in 0.65 seconds.
*Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!*
Ten shots. Ten fallen steel plates. Total time: 3.42 seconds. A masterclass in speed shooting.
The crowd erupted in wild applause. Richard Cole stood in his VIP box, clapping his hands together with a triumphant smirk.
Vanessa turned and sneered at Maya. “Beat that, janitor.”
Maya stepped into Lane Two.
She opened the plastic box, picked up the rental Beretta, and slid a standard fifteen-round magazine into the well. The metal was cold, worn bare of finish along the slide rails.
Marcus Vance stood five paces behind her as the safety officer. As he handed her the ear protection, he leaned in and whispered, “Maya... I checked the gun. The rear sight has been drift-punched. It’s sitting off to the left. Cole’s people touched it during the break.”
Maya didn't even look down at the rear sight.
“I know,” she said softly.
“You know?” Marcus stared at her. “How?”
“The balance point is wrong,” Maya said, her voice completely serene. “When you pick up a weapon, the weight of the steel tells you where the metal is missing. The sight is drifted 0.3 millimeters left. That means two clicks of windage correction in my head.”
Marcus stared at her, awe washing over him like cold water. *She calculated the physical displacement of the sight just by lifting the frame.*
“Shooter ready?” the judge asked.
Maya didn't adopt a fancy athletic crouch. She stood balanced, her weight evenly distributed on the balls of her feet, her hands resting naturally at her belt line.
“Ready.”
*BEEP!*
Maya’s hand didn't blur; it flowed.
There was no wasted motion, no theatrical whip of the wrist. The Beretta rose smoothly to her eye line, and before the crowd could even process the movement, the gun began to sing.
*Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack!*
Ten rounds.
Ten falling steel plates.
Total time: 2.11 seconds.
Over a full second faster than Vanessa.
Every single round had struck the exact dead center of the steel plates, compensating for the sabotaged sight with an instinctive millimeter-fraction adjustment of her wrist that human eyes couldn't even track.
The crowd didn't just cheer—they went wild. Spectators slammed their palms against the aluminum barriers, shouting in disbelief.
Vanessa’s face turned from smug confidence to sickly white. “That’s... that’s not possible! She didn't even aim! She just hip-fired!”
“That wasn't hip-fire, Miss Cole,” the head judge said, his voice trembling as he read the timer display. “That was point-shooting. Perfect muscle indexation. Lane Two takes Stage One.”
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Richard Cole gripped the railing of his VIP box so hard the brass groaned. “Stage Two!” he screamed down at the officials. “Move to Stage Two immediately!”
***
