The second shot went.
Another ring came back.
I did not look at him.
The Shepherd did.
He was still chained to the post, but something had changed in his body. He was not flattening himself against the dirt anymore. His ears were low, his sides still tight with fear, but his eyes had fixed on me as if the pattern mattered: breath, silence, shot, no pain. Breath, silence, shot, no pain.
I loaded the third round.
Brock stopped whispering to his friends.
The wind shifted again, harder than before. A younger shooter two benches down lowered his rifle and looked toward the thousand-yard plate. Even the range had gone quiet around us.
I waited through one breath.
Then another.
The mirage settled just enough.
The third round struck steel.
One of Brock’s friends muttered something I couldn’t make out.
I worked the bolt.
My cheek stayed against the stock. My breathing stayed slow. I had learned a long time ago that pressure liked to disguise itself as speed. The harder a moment tried to rush you, the more deliberate you had to become.
Fourth shot.
Fourth ring.
Now I heard Brock clearly.
“No way.”
I almost smiled.
The fifth round was already in the chamber.
Behind me, the Shepherd gave a small whine. Not panic this time. Something closer to attention. I turned my head just enough to see him. The chain was still too short. The collar still sat too tight against the fur at his throat. Brock had left him with nowhere to go when the rifles fired, nowhere to choose distance, nowhere to find safety.
That mattered.
I looked back through the scope.
The target shimmered in the heat.
Brock found his voice again. “Wind’s changing.”
“I know.”
“You miss, the truck is mine.”
“I know.”
His confidence sounded borrowed now.
