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He studied her for a moment—late twenties, calm eyes, sleeves perfectly rolled. Nothing theatrical. Nothing to sell. Just competence.
“Sir, extreme distances require special ranges and approvals. Your long bay tops out at twelve hundred.”
“Then we start there,” Kearns said. “Blake—range control, safety, whatever she needs.”
Two days later, the wind at the extended bay barely bothered the grass. The sky had that dry Texas clarity that turns edges crisp. Targets shimmered at 1,200 meters like stamps on a bright envelope.
Maya arrived early and made the dirt her desk. Weather meter. Kestrel. Laser rangefinder. A small ballistic computer with a cracked corner. She moved between instruments, writing the day into numbers.
“Talk me through,” Kearns said, binoculars up.
“Wind at muzzle, wind at mid-path, wind at target,” she said, watching a strip of surveyor’s tape thirty feet out. “Temp, pressure, density altitude. Flight time and drop. Adjusting for spin drift right, three-tenths mil. Holding a whisper of left for the quartering breeze.”
She settled in behind the Barrett, body a straight line, cheek weld light as breath. The range went very quiet in that way places do when everyone is waiting for one sound.
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