Page 22 of Specter Bred

He simply settled behind the rifle.

Ping.

The steel rang.

Before the sound had fully faded, he was already transitioning to the next target.

Ping.

Another hit.

Then another.

And another.

There was no hesitation or second-guessing. Hell, not even visible effort. It looked less like shooting and more like instinct, as if he'd been born knowing exactly where every round would land.

As the hits piled up, recruits began drifting toward the firing line. Even Redwood and his lackeys abandoned their conversations to watch, their expressions growing darker with every shot. They looked downright offended that a beta was outperforming alpha candidates they'd spent years hearing were among the best soldiers in Arca.

Alvarez, Cutter, and Graves had gone silent. All three watched Hayes like hawks.

"I guess they build betas differently in the country," Alvarez muttered.

Cutter snorted. "Hell, he's already bigger than any beta I've ever seen. But this?" He shook his head. "That's expert-level marksmanship."

Graves simply hummed.

Great.

Even the instructors were falling for Samuel Hayes.

One by one, Hayes cleared the course.

The one-hundred-yard targets. The three-hundred. The five-hundred. The one-thousand.

By the time he reached the fifteen hundred-yard silhouette, the entire range had fallen silent. Redwood had managed two hits at that distance. I had managed four.

Hayes settled behind the rifle, adjusted his grip, and fired.

Ping.

The steel rang.

Then it rang again.

And again.

Each shot landed with the same effortless confidence as the last. No hesitation, visible calculations, or signs of strain. Just hit after hit after hit.

When the fifth round struck steel, a stunned silence settled over the range. Twenty-five out of twenty-five. A perfect score.

Hayes rose to his feet with a grin so proud it was almost offensive.

"Told you I was good at this, sir," he chuckled.

Graves didn't respond.

Instead, he turned, walked to the weapons table, and grabbed another rifle.