Page 5 of My Forbidden Commander

Outside, I walk the perimeter road toward the range, because walking beats lying in my bunk negotiating with my own pulse, and because I want to be there first.

The range at Kestrel is a gravel strip cut into the hillside. Sandbag firing line, steel targets staggered out to six hundred meters, half of them scarred silver from years of hits. I check the lane, check the wind flags hanging dead in the fog, and set up a spotting scope with hands that are perfectly steady, thank you.

He’s early.

0547, and Reyes comes up the path with his rifle slung and his collar turned up against the cold, breath fogging, hair a mess even under his cap. Thirteen minutes early. Then again, soldiers show up early to make an impression all the time.

“Colonel.” He stops at the proper distance and gives me a full salute this time, so crisp it has to be on purpose. Like he’s saying, see? I know how.

“Specialist.” I nod at the firing line. “Lane one. Cold range until I say otherwise. Show me your weapon.”

He unslings the rifle and hands it over, cleared and safe. I go over it like I’d go over any transfer’s weapon, because a man’s rifle tells you things his file won’t. This one is worn but immaculate—scuffed pale at the grip, finish rubbed gray along the handguard where his support hand lives, and every moving part clean enough for surgery. Somebody either taught him well, or he learned by nearly dying.

“You maintain this yourself.”

“Every day, sir.”

I hand it back.

“Two hundred meters. Standing to prone, five rounds, on my command. Then we work back.”

“Yes, sir.”

There it is again. Two regulation words with a hook buried in them. I turn to the scope so I’m not looking at his mouth when he says it.

“Fire.”

He drops from standing to prone in one smooth motion and shoots before I expect him to. Steel rings out in the fog. Then again. Again. Five hits, a spread I could cover with my palm, and he’s already scanning past the target for the next one.

“Four hundred.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Six.”

I watch him instead of watching the target, which is a mistake. I do it anyway. The slouch is gone. Reyes isn’t the loose-hipped smartass from my briefing hut anymore. He’s quiet and precise, cheek welded to the stock, brown eyes calm behind the optic. So the attitude is camouflage. This, right here, is the actual soldier, and the mouth is just the tripwire he strings around himself so nobody walks up on the real thing.

The rifle cracks. A full second later, six hundred meters out, steel sings.

“Again.”

Ring.

“Again.”

Ring.

Fuck. He shoots better than his scores. His scores are in the top two percent, and he shoots better than that. I’ve stood behind enough firing lines to know how rare that is—and exactly how much trouble it buys everyone standing near it.

“Cease fire. Clear and safe.”

Reyes clears the weapon, stands, and brushes gravel off his front. His cheeks are pink from the cold and the recoil, and a piece of hair has come loose across his forehead. He looks up at me, waiting for the verdict, and I recognize the look. He wants to know if it was good. And not for the record. He wants to hear it from me.

“Your quals are verified,” I say.

Reyes blinks at me. “That’s it, sir?”

I keep my expression blank. “Were you expecting a parade?”