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Sunday 03 May 2026 05:25:34 GMT
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That little scratch is your tattoo?” Derek Stone called from across the firing line, loud enough that three nearby competitors paused while loading their magazines. Emily Hayes glanced down at the short red mark on her wrist, then quietly pulled her sleeve over it without giving him an answer. Derek rested against the equipment table with a grin. The New Mexico sun blazed over the competition range, flashing across steel barricades, rifle cases, and polished scoring monitors. Around them, spectators packed the temporary bleachers beneath white shade canopies. Some had made the drive from Albuquerque before dawn. Others had arrived from military bases, police departments, shooting clubs, and competitive teams throughout the Southwest. But the laughter closest to Emily had nothing to do with the tournament. Derek gestured toward her hidden wrist. “Seriously, Hayes, did your tattoo artist give up halfway through?” Several competitors laughed. Someone behind him murmured, “That’s cold.” Derek’s smile only widened. Emily checked the chamber flag on her rifle. She did not look at him. That appeared to bother him more than if she had argued back. “What?” Derek said. “You don’t have anything to say?” Emily lifted her rifle from the rack and examined the sling. Derek moved a little closer. “You know what it looks like?” She stayed silent. “Like somebody started drawing something meaningful and decided you weren’t worth finishing.” The laughter around them became louder. Emily’s fingers paused for barely half a second. Then she went back to adjusting the sling. A young range assistant looked in her direction. His expression grew tense. He seemed prepared to step in. Emily gave him a small shake of her head. The assistant backed away. Derek saw it. “Oh, come on.” He opened his hands toward the spectators. “We’re competitors.” “We’re allowed to joke.” Emily finally raised her eyes to him. Her expression remained steady. “No problem.” Just two words. Nothing else. Derek blinked. He looked almost disappointed. “Good.” He tapped his chest. “I’d hate to think third place was already getting sensitive.” The scoreboard stood about thirty yards behind them. Emily’s name currently sat in third place. Derek’s was in first. Several stages of the tournament still remained. Still, Derek carried himself as if the trophy already belonged to him. He had plenty of reason to feel confident. At thirty-six, broad-shouldered, disciplined, and highly experienced, Derek had controlled regional shooting competitions for almost three seasons. Sponsors knew his name. Range officials recognized him. Spectators sometimes asked to take photos with him. He understood attention. More importantly, he liked being the one who controlled it. Emily seemed to understand something completely different. She knew how to vanish inside a crowd. She wore a simple gray competition shirt. Her equipment had no bright or flashy customization. Her rifle case displayed no obvious sponsor decals. She spoke with officials only when necessary. Nothing about her seemed designed to attract attention. Except for the red line. It was hardly more than an inch long. Straight. Thin. Intentional. There were no letters beside it. No dates. No symbols. No names.
That little scratch is your tattoo?” Derek Stone called from across the firing line, loud enough that three nearby competitors paused while loading their magazines. Emily Hayes glanced down at the short red mark on her wrist, then quietly pulled her sleeve over it without giving him an answer. Derek rested against the equipment table with a grin. The New Mexico sun blazed over the competition range, flashing across steel barricades, rifle cases, and polished scoring monitors. Around them, spectators packed the temporary bleachers beneath white shade canopies. Some had made the drive from Albuquerque before dawn. Others had arrived from military bases, police departments, shooting clubs, and competitive teams throughout the Southwest. But the laughter closest to Emily had nothing to do with the tournament. Derek gestured toward her hidden wrist. “Seriously, Hayes, did your tattoo artist give up halfway through?” Several competitors laughed. Someone behind him murmured, “That’s cold.” Derek’s smile only widened. Emily checked the chamber flag on her rifle. She did not look at him. That appeared to bother him more than if she had argued back. “What?” Derek said. “You don’t have anything to say?” Emily lifted her rifle from the rack and examined the sling. Derek moved a little closer. “You know what it looks like?” She stayed silent. “Like somebody started drawing something meaningful and decided you weren’t worth finishing.” The laughter around them became louder. Emily’s fingers paused for barely half a second. Then she went back to adjusting the sling. A young range assistant looked in her direction. His expression grew tense. He seemed prepared to step in. Emily gave him a small shake of her head. The assistant backed away. Derek saw it. “Oh, come on.” He opened his hands toward the spectators. “We’re competitors.” “We’re allowed to joke.” Emily finally raised her eyes to him. Her expression remained steady. “No problem.” Just two words. Nothing else. Derek blinked. He looked almost disappointed. “Good.” He tapped his chest. “I’d hate to think third place was already getting sensitive.” The scoreboard stood about thirty yards behind them. Emily’s name currently sat in third place. Derek’s was in first. Several stages of the tournament still remained. Still, Derek carried himself as if the trophy already belonged to him. He had plenty of reason to feel confident. At thirty-six, broad-shouldered, disciplined, and highly experienced, Derek had controlled regional shooting competitions for almost three seasons. Sponsors knew his name. Range officials recognized him. Spectators sometimes asked to take photos with him. He understood attention. More importantly, he liked being the one who controlled it. Emily seemed to understand something completely different. She knew how to vanish inside a crowd. She wore a simple gray competition shirt. Her equipment had no bright or flashy customization. Her rifle case displayed no obvious sponsor decals. She spoke with officials only when necessary. Nothing about her seemed designed to attract attention. Except for the red line. It was hardly more than an inch long. Straight. Thin. Intentional. There were no letters beside it. No dates. No symbols. No names."


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