The bolt locked back with a hollow metallic ping.
Jack ejected the mag, inserted the next, smacked it home, hit the bolt release. Smooth. Thoughtless. Pure muscle memory. But his finger paused again over the trigger, like it was waiting for permission his brain wouldn't give.
"Three-hundred!" the coach barked.
Jack stood with the others, rifle slung, sweat cutting lines down the back of his neck. The sun sat low enough to be a bastard, catching the edge of every metal surface. They walked uprange to the next firing line. The silence in the group around him felt heavier than the rifle on his back.
He dropped back into position.
Target downrange: standard black silhouette. Man-shaped. Easy. Jack had drilled this thousands of times.
He fired.
Wide.
No wind. No reason. Just a miss.
His jaw tightened. Adjusted. Fired again.
Another miss.
The sound of tight, rhythmic fire echoed around him. Other Marines, hitting clean. Their rifles chirped with confident little pops. Jack's, by comparison, felt... sloppy. Alone.
Flash.
Cinderblock dust.
His sight picture broke.
He blinked.
Fallujah.
He was back in the alley—tight space, gunfire ricocheting off burnt concrete. Some kid's scream echoing from behind a door that never opened. Blood on gloves. Not his.
"Jack! You tracking? On your left!"
A memory, not a voice. Still, it made him flinch.
He fired again.
Off target.
Again.
Off.
Again.
He stopped aiming.
The last rounds he squeezed out like poison, flat and angry. He could feel the coach's eyes. Felt the scorn rolling off the line.
Click.
Range cold.
Jack stayed prone a second longer than he needed to. Then stood, slung his M4, and faced the voice coming down the line.
"That's a thirty-four, Soren," the range officer said, disgust obvious. "Jesus. Did you forget which end of the rifle does the work?"
Jack didn't answer.
He didn't Care. Didn't argue.
He just walked. Off the line. Toward the tree line behind the range, where nobody could see his face.