Page 17 of Specter Bred

The chuckles died immediately.

"One more thing," Cutter continued. "This isn't a competition."

He paused.

"Actually, that's a lie. It absolutely is a competition."

More laughter rolled through the line.

"Every score will be recorded. Every miss will be recorded. Every one of you will know exactly where you rank by the end of the day," Cutter explained.

Now the candidates looked competitive which was exactly what our instructors wanted.

Then Major Graves stepped forward. The range immediately fell silent. His gaze swept across the formation before settling briefly on me and Hayes.

"Most soldiers think shooting is about hitting targets."

His voice carried easily across the range.

"They're wrong. Shooting is about discipline. Patience. Control."

His eyes moved across the recruits again.

"A man who can bench press four hundred pounds but can't control his breathing is useless to me. A man who panics when conditions aren't perfect is useless to me. A man who needs someone else to tell him where the wind is blowing is useless to me."

The silence deepened.

"Today isn't about proving you're tough. It isn't about proving you're strong."

His scarred face hardened.

"It's about proving you can place a round exactly where you intend to under pressure."

He pointed toward the firing line.

"Get your rifles."

Then a slow grin spread across the undamaged side of his face.

"And try not to embarrass yourselves."

The first recruits called to the firing line were Miles Redwood, Nathan Long, and Alec Teller. They were easily the three biggest assholes in our candidate class. Long and Teller followed Redwood around like loyal attack dogs, hanging on his every word and laughing at every joke, no matter how terrible.

I'd heard rumors of all three before arriving at Fairfield. They had reputations for aggression, combat deployments, and successful missions. Each man was the type of alpha soldier instructors loved and everyone else tolerated.

Teller looked at me as if I were an abomination. Long barely acknowledged my existence at all. And Redwood? Redwood was the worst. Because every time he looked at me, he smiled. Not a friendly smile, or even a mocking one. His smile made my skin crawl because it said he didn't see me as competition. More like he thought I was a toy, something to play with.

As he stepped up to the firing line and raised his rifle, his gaze found mine again. And there it was.

That cocky.

Fucking smile.

Good.

If I needed anything to fuel me today, it was Miles Redwood reminding me exactly how badly I wanted to fucking beat him.

Redwood went first and did exactly what everyone expected him to do.