“I take him. Paperwork transferred immediately. You never touch him again.”
Brock laughed.
“In this wind? Nobody’s making five straight hits.”
He stepped aside.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, sweetheart.”
I said nothing.
I worked the bolt.
Loaded the first custom round.
Lowered myself onto the scorching dirt.
Distance.
Humidity.
Crosswind.
Mirage.
Steel.
Behind me, Brock chuckled.
“Better say goodbye to your truck.”
Then the wind shifted.
Hard.
Sudden.
Exactly the kind of change that made experienced shooters hesitate.
I didn’t.
The Shepherd went still.
Brock stopped laughing.
I exhaled slowly.
Placed my finger against the trigger.
And began to squeeze. 👇
The trigger broke cleanly.
The rifle drove back into my shoulder, and a second later the steel plate answered with a distant, hard ring.
Nobody behind me laughed.
I lifted the bolt, chambered the next round, and kept my eye on the glass. The wind was still moving across the valley in ugly, uneven bands, pushing dust sideways over the range. Brock shifted his weight behind me. I could hear the soles of his boots grinding gravel, impatient at first, then less certain.
