Chapter 3: The King of the Range

Chapter 3: The King of the Range

Three months had passed. Summer’s oppressive heat had given way to the crisp, cooler air of a Carolina autumn. The memory of that night—the blinding high beams, the manufactured accusation, the sheer, naked arrogance of a young MP on a power trip—had mostly faded, receding into the background noise of a demanding career. It was no longer a fresh wound, but a thin, pale scar that would occasionally twinge with a phantom ache of unresolved injustice. Sergeant Jack “Hawk” Riley had a job to do, and his focus was as narrow and intense as the front sight post of his M16A2 service rifle.

And here, on the sprawling expanse of Range 4, he was king.

The air was a potent cocktail of freshly cut grass, damp earth, and the sharp, addictive perfume of burnt gunpowder. The rhythmic crack-thump… crack-thump of fifty rifles firing in near-unison was the heartbeat of his world. Down the line, fifty young Marines lay in the prone, their bodies anchored to the red Carolina clay, squinting through peep sights at targets five hundred yards distant. To an outsider, it was chaos. To Hawk, it was a symphony, and he was its conductor.

He moved with an easy, predatory grace behind the firing line, his jungle boots making no sound on the packed earth. His eyes, the color of gunmetal, missed nothing. He saw the subtle tremble in a private’s shoulder, indicating he was muscling the rifle instead of letting his bones support the weight. He saw the almost imperceptible flinch of another shooter just before the trigger break. He saw the puff of dirt kicked up five feet low and to the left of a target, diagnosing a flawed trigger squeeze and a rushed shot before the shooter himself even knew what he’d done wrong.

"Martinez!" His voice wasn't a shout; it was a low, cutting command that sliced through the din of gunfire.

A young private, his face slick with sweat and concentration, tensed up. "Sergeant!"

Hawk knelt beside him, his movements fluid and economical. He didn't touch the Marine or his rifle. He didn't need to. "You're chasing the bullseye, son. You see it drift, and you jerk the muzzle back on target right as you fire. Am I wrong?"

Private Martinez blinked, stunned. "No, Sergeant. How'd you know?"

"I know because your last three rounds landed in a neat little line in the seven-ring at four o'clock," Hawk said, his gaze fixed downrange. "Breathe. Relax your shoulders. Find your natural point of aim. Close your eyes, take a breath, open them. If the sights aren't on the target, adjust your whole body, not just your arms. Let the rifle settle. Squeeze the trigger like you're squeezing a sponge, slowly, until the shot surprises you. You got that?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Good. Now do it. Send it."

Hawk stood and moved on. A few minutes later, he heard the distinctive ping of Martinez's shot striking the bullseye marker. A tower coach gave Hawk a nod of acknowledgment. Hawk simply touched the brim of his campaign cover in return. This was his purpose. Shaping raw recruits and seasoned Marines alike into lethal instruments of precision. His reputation was built on two pillars: an unyielding demand for perfection and an unshakable foundation of fairness. He would spend hours with a struggling shooter, patiently rebuilding their form from the ground up. But he had zero tolerance for laziness, carelessness, or ego on his range. Here, the only thing that mattered was sight alignment and trigger control. Rank, reputation, and swagger were left at the gate. On Hawk's range, the rifle was the great equalizer.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, the final "Cease Fire" of the day was called. The range went quiet, the sudden silence almost as loud as the gunfire it replaced. The smell of hot metal and solvent now filled the air as the shooters began the meticulous process of cleaning their weapons.

Hawk’s work wasn't done. He headed for the range tower, a simple wooden structure that served as the nerve center of the operation. His boots thudded on the wooden stairs as he climbed to the second-floor office.

"Good day, Gunny," he said to the Gunnery Sergeant manning the radio.

"Good day, Hawk. You turned that Martinez kid around. He qualified expert by two points."

"He just needed to get out of his own head," Hawk replied, grabbing a canteen of lukewarm water and taking a long swallow. His eyes fell on a clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the roster for the next day's annual qualification—a list of Marines from various non-infantry units across the base who needed to maintain their basic rifleman skills. MPs, cooks, mechanics, admin clerks.

He scanned the typed list out of habit, his eyes moving down the column of names. Smith, J. Jones, R. Davis, M. Standard names, a standard roster. He was about to turn away when his gaze snagged on a name halfway down the second page. It was a simple entry, printed in the same stark, black ink as all the others.

GALLO, V. LCPL.

Time seemed to slow down. The distant sounds of the range—the clatter of cleaning rods, the low murmur of conversation—faded to nothing. In his mind's eye, Hawk was no longer in the range tower. He was back in his Bronco on that deserted road, the world outside his windshield a blinding supernova of white light. He saw the smug, punchable grin. He heard the oily, condescending voice dripping with false respect. Could have implications for your career, you know?

The cold, hard knot of injustice that had settled in his gut three months ago tightened with a vicious twist. He had compartmentalized the incident, filed it away under "unpleasant bullshit," and focused on his duty. But seeing that name, here, on his roster, was like a key turning in a lock he didn't know he was waiting to open.

The universe, it seemed, had a sense of irony. And a long memory.

Vincent Gallo, the petty tyrant of the midnight patrol, was coming to his kingdom tomorrow. He would be just another shooter on the line, another Marine to be judged by the cold, impartial mathematics of marksmanship. Here, his MP brassard meant nothing. His badge held no authority. Here, he was just a man with a rifle.

And Sergeant "Hawk" Riley was the man who would be grading his test.

A slow smile spread across Hawk's face. It wasn't a smile of humor or happiness. It was a cold, thin, predatory curve of the lips. The grim smile of a hunter who, after months of patient waiting, had just watched his quarry wander unknowingly into a perfectly prepared kill zone.

The bitter memory was no longer fading. It was sharp, clear, and demanding payment.

The game was back on.