Commander Jake Mitchell had seen elite shooters handle everything from pistols to heavy artillery—but nothing prepared him for Sarah Chen. At 0800 hours on Range 7, before the compound had stirred, she was already behind a Barrett .50, moving like the rifle was an extension of her body. Oversized, punishing, merciless—yet in her hands, it was poetry.
Mitchell stopped mid-row, binoculars raised. Twenty-three years in the SEALs had shown him every type of shooter—nervous, overconfident, reckless. Sarah was none of them. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t rushing. She was executing. Perfectly.
Her first round slammed into an 800-meter target with flawless precision. The spent casing ejected like she was turning a page in a book she already knew by heart. The second round drilled the same hole. No flinch, no celebration, just breath, adjustment, and another shot.
“Who is that?” Mitchell asked Sergeant Davis.
“New transfer from Bragg. Sarah Chen. Been out since 0500,” he replied.
On paper, she was just infantry. Nothing exceptional. But Mitchell didn’t need a file—he saw experience, instinct, and lethal precision in every measured movement.
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