He ran his thumb along the fluted contours of the barrel, remembering every hour he’d spent honing this weapon to his hand, to his shoulder pocket, to his accuracy.
The Nightforce ATACR optic sat mounted with a cantilever rail, zeroed at 300, his preferred middle distance. He adjusted the elevation turret out of habit, not necessity, watching the numbers click under his fingertip. Every line. Every modification. Every ounce of weight distribution. His design.
Breakneck swallowed hard, jaw tightening. Elevating his precision. Sharpening his kills.
He gritted his teeth at the last thought, that last word, and his gut twisted. Not because he regretted a single shot. Not because he questioned his purpose. But because he felt nothing.
Not a goddamn thing. Every mission. Every confirmed hit. Every life he’d ended from 800 meters or more. All of it should weigh something. Should leave some scar. Instead, his conscience stayed silent. Emotionless. Cold zeros.
He shut his eyes. A short, harsh breath tore out of him. Then he snapped open the breech and began his routine. Bolt out.
He gently wiped the bolt face clean, then the receiver. Bore guide inserted. Bronze brush down the barrel, smooth, even strokes, listening to the soft rasp echo through the steel.
Then patches were soaked in solvent, withdrawing one after another until they came out clean.
Each step steadied him. Focused him. Pinned his brain to something concrete.
This…this he could control. This, he could do right. He fit the bolt back in, tested the action, cycling it once, twice, feeling the perfect marriage of metal on metal. His breathing finally leveled. His heartbeat slowed. The weapon lay across the table, gleaming under the overhead cage lights.
Piece by piece. Motion by motion, repetition settled into his bones. His breath syncing with the rhythm of the brush and swab. Focus dragging him back from the edges.
His rifle. His craft. His only constant. The one thing in his life he knew he handled right.
It grounded him, but not enough.
He hadn’t stumbled into this life. He’d been honed into it, carved down, sharpened, tempered, until there was nothing left but the weapon Uncle Sam needed him to be. He’d made the sacrifices. Physical. Mental. Gave up sleep, comfort, fear, hesitation. Learned how to breathe in four-count increments, how to make his heartbeat an ally, how to let silence burrow deep and stay there.
A lot of guys got nervous pulling the trigger the first time. He hadn’t.
Anyone on the other side of his scope was trying to end American lives. Trying to end his brothers. Breakneck’s teammates were his first, final, nonnegotiable priority.
His shots were always true. The enemy went down. Didn’t get up. That was his fucking job. That was war.
He could live with that.
What he couldn’t live with, what gutted him now, was the fact that he was questioning it. Questioning himself.
That goddamned Derrick had gotten into his head so deeply he’d made Breakneck doubt the one pure thing he’d ever done in his life. His job. His purpose. His kill-shot clarity.
His head pounded. His stomach rolled. He needed control. He needed pain. He needed something to drown out the shame clawing at his ribs.
So he changed into nothing but a pair of compression shorts, sending conversation after him as he stalked straight to the base training facility. It was blessedly empty at this hour, just the hum of overhead lights and the faint rubber scent of mats and iron.
Perfect.
He went straight to the pull-up bar. No stretching. No warm-up. No thought.
He grabbed the bar and pulled, explosive, clean, full extension, over and over until his lats screamed and his arms trembled. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. He lost count.
His breath tore out of him in harsh bursts, sweat rolling down his temples and burning the cut on his jaw he barely remembered getting. Good. He wanted the burn. Wanted the ache.
He dropped off the bar and staggered straight to the rings. Dips. Slow, deep, punishing.
The same routine that built the stability for impossible sniper holds. The same routine he’d mastered years ago. But today it wasn’t about mastery. Today it was about penance.
He lowered himself until his chest hovered above the floor, arms quaking, breath ragged, and held. Every tendon in his body screamed. His shoulders trembled.
“Come on,” he growled to himself. “Hold.” He pushed through the burn until his vision spotted and his arms buckled, dropping him hard onto the mat. He rolled to his back, chest heaving. Pain flared in every muscle. Still not enough.
