Page 16 of Specter Bred

"All your ideas are stupid, Hayes."

He just chuckled and took another bite of the mystery mush.

Every time Grizzly walked into a room, my eyes found him automatically. Partly because I hated him, partly because I wanted to know what fresh hell he had planned for me and Hayes, and partly because it was impossible not to notice a six-foot-eight legend with half his face burned off glaring at everyone like they were wasting his oxygen.

I might have hated him, but I couldn't help respecting him, too. The man had survived the un-survivable and built a reputation most soldiers only dreamed about. Somehow, despite the fact that he was making my life miserable, a small part of me still wanted his approval.

Which was ridiculous.

Yet every time he singled me out, every time those hazel eyes locked onto mine, and every time he growled, "Move, Teacup," my pulse betrayed me.

Not because I wanted him.

Fuck, no.

He was an arrogant, overgrown asshole who seemed to wake up every morning wondering how he could make my life more difficult.

Which was exactly why it was so irritating that my body occasionally forgot all of that. Especially when he stepped into my space, towering over me, or when he lowered his voice and whispered that stupid nickname into my ear. Something tightened low in my stomach, not enough to mean anything, just enough to annoy the hell out of me.

I blamed it on proximity and the fact that he was objectively attractive. Hell, the man was a decorated war hero built like a tank. Just my type. But his good looks couldn't come close to making up for his abhorent personality.

“Hey, time to go. Graves, Alvarez, and Cutter just got up,” Hayes said, drawing me from my thoughts.

I groaned, shoveling a few extra scoops of mush into my mouth, knowing I was about to need every calorie I could store. We'd already done four laps on the obstacle course, carrying thirty-five pound rucks. But that was only our warm-up for the day.

Every candidate followed the instructors out, dumping their trays at the trash station. We trailed at the back of the line, headed to Fairfield's outdoor long-range precision range.

The range stretched across a vast area of cleared scrubland. Heat shimmered above the dry desert grasses while orange wind flags snapped in the breeze every hundred yards.

Long rows of targets stretched across the range, growing smaller and smaller until the farthest ones were barely visible in the distance.

A murmur passed through the candidates. Most had expected another run or another obstacle course. Grizzly enjoyed finding creative ways to make everyone suffer.

Instead, rifles rested on tables in front of us.

Captain Alvarez stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"Welcome to Precision Qualification. Today we're testing marksmanship." He gestured toward the targets spread across the range. "You'll engage targets at one hundred, three hundred, five hundred, one thousand, and fifteen hundred yards."

Several recruits exchanged uneasy looks.

Alvarez smirked.

"Each distance is progressively harder. Wind, elevation, breathing, trigger control — all of it matters. You will receive five rounds per target."

He pointed toward the nearest steel silhouette.

"You're not shooting paper today. You're shooting steel. If you hit the target, you'll hear it."

To demonstrate, he lifted a rifle and shot, allowing us all to hear the ping of metal on metal.

Captain Cutter stepped forward.

"And if you miss, everyone else will hear that too."

A few recruits chuckled nervously while Cutter grinned.

"Which means there's nowhere to hide. No excuses. No blaming the target. No blaming your rifle. No blaming the wind. If you miss, it's because you missed."