Chapter 2
As I reached for the rifle, my trembling hand knocked a box of ammunition off the table. The heavy brass rounds spilled into the dirt with a loud clatter.
The laughter grew louder. It wasn’t just mocking now; it was cruel. It was the sound of apex predators laughing at a wounded animal.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Vance said, stepping forward. He reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He slapped it down onto the hood of the Humvee.
“Two thousand dollars,” Vance announced, his voice booming across the quiet desert. “Two grand says you can’t even get that rifle shouldered, let alone hit steel.”
He looked around at his men. “Anyone want a piece of this?”
A few of the operators pulled out their wallets, tossing hundred-dollar bills onto the pile. The ultimate insult. They were betting against a crippled veteran for entertainment.
I stared at the pile of money. Then I looked at Vance.
“I don’t want your money,” I said quietly.
“Then what do you want?” Vance sneered.
“I want you to set up the target,” I said.
“Target’s already out there, sweetheart,” Vance pointed down the range. “Standard steel plate. One thousand meters. If you can even see it.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not the steel plate. And not one thousand meters.”
I pointed toward a jagged ridge of mountains in the far distance, a hazy blue silhouette against the harsh desert sky.
“You see that ridgeline?” I asked.
Vance squinted. “Yeah. That’s over a mile and a half away. What about it?”
“I want you to drive out there,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “I want you to drive out to the base of that ridge. Exactly 2,720 meters.”
The laughter stopped. The operators stared at me like I had lost my mind.
“Two thousand, seven hundred and twenty meters?” Vance repeated, his tone shifting from amusement to disbelief. “That’s impossible. The wind shear across the canyon alone will throw a bullet twenty feet off course.”
“Just drive out there,” I repeated. “And take a candle.”
“A candle?” Vance scoffed.
“Yes. A standard, white wax candle. Light it. Set it on a rock. And stand back.”
Silence fell over the group. The sheer audacity of the request hung in the cold air.
At 2,720 meters, a candle flame wouldn’t even be visible to the naked eye. Through a high-powered scope, it would look like a microscopic, dancing spec of dust. The bullet would be in the air for almost four seconds. The rotation of the Earth would literally affect the trajectory.
It was a shot that defied the laws of physics. It was a shot that even a healthy, uninjured tier-one sniper would consider a one-in-a-million miracle.
“You’re out of your mind,” Vance said slowly.
“Are you taking the bet or not?” I challenged, stepping closer to him.
Vance stared down at me. He looked at my violently shaking hands. He looked at the fire in my eyes.
“Fine,” he growled. He grabbed a radio from his vest. “Miller. Grab a candle from the emergency kit in the truck. Drive out to the ridge. Range it exactly 2,720 meters.”
A younger operator nodded, jogging toward a side-by-side ATV.
As the ATV roared off into the distance, kicking up a massive trail of dust, the atmosphere on the firing line shifted. The mocking laughter was gone, replaced by a tense, heavy silence.
I knelt down beside the shooting mat. The cold ground seeped through the knees of my pants.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm in my nervous system. I opened the black hard case I had brought with me. Inside, resting on custom-cut foam, was my prototype.
It looked like a piece of robotic armor. A sleek, titanium and carbon-fiber exoskeleton designed to encase my right forearm and hand.
I slid my trembling arm into the device. It was a tight, agonizing fit. The damaged nerves screamed in protest as the cold metal pressed against my skin.
I strapped it down, securing the heavy Velcro straps across my bicep and wrist.
Then, I reached over with my left hand and flipped the small toggle switch on the side of the brace.
A low, barely audible hum emanated from the device. The micro-hydraulics engaged.
Instantly, the violent shaking in my right hand stopped.
The silence on the range became deafening. I could feel the eyes of every Delta operator burning into my back.
I reached out and grabbed the pistol grip of the massive .416 Barrett. My grip was firm. Solid. Unmoving.
I pulled the heavy weapon into my shoulder, settling into the prone position. The familiar scent of gun oil and cold steel washed over me, bringing back memories of a life I thought I had lost forever.
