CHAP 3: THE TATTOO THAT MADE A JUDGE GO PALE
The desert wind shifted.
Flags snapped across the firing lanes.
Two thousand meters away, the target shimmered through heat waves.
Most competitors feared shots at that distance.
Sophia settled behind the rifle like she had done it her entire life.
The crowd laughed.
Dylan laughed louder.
“Careful,” he called. “That target is farther away than your coffee route.”
Sophia ignored him.
Her cheek rested against the stock.
Her breathing slowed.
Her forearm shifted slightly.
The tattoo became visible again.
Three angled lines.
A broken circle.
A mark shaped like a sight reticle.
Judge Harrison Cole stared.
His face slowly lost color.
His coffee cup trembled in his hand.
Because he had seen that symbol before.
Not in public.
Not on television.
Not in any competition record.
Only once.
Twenty years ago.
On the arm of a shooter who had vanished without a trace.
Sophia’s finger moved toward the trigger.
The entire range seemed to stop breathing.
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And Harrison whispered a name he hadn't spoken in decades.
“Caleb Brooks...”
