Chapter 5: A Perfect Score

Chapter 5: A Perfect Score

The world, for Vincent Gallo, had shrunk to a circle four inches in diameter. Through the rear peep sight of his M16A2, the distant black bullseye of the target wavered, a tiny island in a sea of green and brown. Behind him, he could feel Sergeant Hawk Riley’s presence like a physical weight on his shoulders. The threat, "One tiny mistake," echoed with every beat of his heart, a frantic drum against his ribs. His hands, slick with a cold sweat, felt alien on the familiar polymer stock of the rifle.

The command came from the tower: “WATCH YOUR LANES! TARGETS!”

Downrange, the massive target frames rose from the pits, presenting a fresh set of silhouettes for the 200-yard slow fire. Ten rounds. Ten minutes. Prone position. The easiest part of the course.

Gallo’s first shot was a disaster. He flinched, jerking the trigger instead of squeezing it. The recoil felt jarring, wrong. Through the spotting scope perched beside him on its tripod, Hawk watched the shot marker appear in the pits: a five in the seven-ring, low and to the left. A rookie mistake. A flicker of grim satisfaction ignited in Hawk’s chest. This was it. The beginning of the end. The pressure was already breaking him.

But then, something shifted. Hawk watched through the powerful lens as Gallo closed his eyes for a long second. He saw the young MP’s chest rise and fall in a single, deep, controlled breath. When Gallo opened his eyes and settled back behind the rifle, the trembling in his shoulders was gone. A mask of cold, focused fury had replaced the panic. It was the look of a cornered animal deciding to fight.

The second shot cracked. A moment later, the marker in the pits popped up. Dead center. A bullseye.

The third shot. Bullseye.

The fourth. Bullseye.

One by one, Gallo sent nine perfect rounds downrange, each one striking the black with unnerving precision. He was a machine. His breathing was rhythmic, his trigger squeeze was textbook, his body was locked into the earth as if he were part of the landscape. It was infuriating. Hawk, the master instructor, could find no technical fault. The early flinch had been an anomaly. Gallo wasn't just a bully with a badge; the son of a bitch could actually shoot.

"TIME!" the tower bellowed. "PREPARE FOR RAPID FIRE, SITTING POSITION! YOU WILL HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO FIRE TEN ROUNDS!"

This was the next hurdle. Speed and accuracy. Shooters had to reload under pressure, stripping a used magazine and inserting a fresh one without breaking their sight picture. It was a common point of failure. A fumbled magazine, a round not seated correctly—a dozen things could go wrong.

Hawk watched, his eyes narrowed, waiting for that fumbled reload. He focused his spotting scope not on the target, but on Gallo's hands.

"TARGETS!"

Gallo fired two rounds, the brass casings ejecting in a neat arc. Then, with a fluid economy of motion that spoke of countless hours of practice, his left hand dropped the empty magazine while his right retrieved a full one from his pouch. The reload was seamless. The rifle was back in his shoulder, the bolt slammed home, and he was sending rounds downrange before the Marines on either side of him had even found their second magazine.

Clack-ping. Clack-ping. Clack-ping. The rifle cycled flawlessly. Ten rounds, ten hits in the black. Hawk tightened his grip on the focus knob of the scope, his knuckles turning white.

The day wore on, a slow-motion nightmare for Hawk and a display of maddening competence from Gallo. At the 300-yard line, from the unstable kneeling position, Gallo put every single shot into the ten-ring. During the 300-yard rapid fire, the most physically demanding portion of the course, he went from a standing position to prone, acquired his target, and fired his ten rounds with clean reloads in under seventy seconds. Every movement was precise, efficient, and utterly perfect.

Hawk was a predator circling a prey that showed no weakness. With every perfect shot group that appeared on Gallo's target, the Lance Corporal's confidence grew. The fear that had ghosted his features at the start of the day was gone, replaced by a familiar, cocky set to his jaw. He was no longer just surviving; he was performing. He was showing the old Sergeant that he couldn't be broken, that he couldn't be intimidated. The rifle range was Hawk's kingdom, but Gallo was proving he was not just another subject. He was a contender for the throne.

Finally, they moved back to the 500-yard line. The final stage. Ten rounds, slow fire, from the prone position. This was the great separator. At five hundred yards, the bullseye was a mere speck. The slightest tremor, the smallest miscalculation for wind, the most infinitesimal flaw in trigger control would send a round wide, ruining a score. This was where legends were made and experts were humbled.

The wind had picked up, a fickle crosswind that gusted and swirled, tugging at the campaign covers of the coaches. Hawk felt a renewed sense of hope. This was a thinking man's game now. It wasn't just mechanics; it was art. And a bully like Gallo wasn't an artist.

He watched Gallo test the wind, dropping a pinch of dry dust from his fingertips and watching its drift. He saw him make a two-click adjustment to his rear sight. The correct adjustment.

Gallo settled in for his final ten shots. The air grew still. The cadence of firing slowed across the line as every shooter took their time, battling the distance and the wind.

Crack. Hawk watched through his scope as the vapor trail of the bullet cut through the air. The target went down into the pits and came back up. Bullseye.

Crack. Bullseye.

Crack. Bullseye.

Eight more times, Gallo’s rifle barked its defiance. Eight more times, the marker in the pits signaled a perfect shot. He hadn't just compensated for the wind; he was reading its subtle shifts between shots, holding his aim slightly left or right with an instinct Hawk had only seen in the most gifted marksmen.

The entire range seemed to be holding its breath. The coaches and other shooters were aware of the incredible performance unfolding on lane fourteen. A perfect score—a "possible," as it was called in the Corps—was a rare and revered achievement.

Gallo had one round left. One final shot to achieve perfection.

Hawk’s gut was a cold, hard knot. This couldn't be happening. His plan, his righteous vengeance, was turning to ash in his mouth. He had laid the perfect trap, applied unbearable pressure, and the target had not only refused to break, but had thrived.

Gallo took his time with the last round. He breathed, settled the rifle butt deep into the pocket of his shoulder, and began the slow, steady squeeze. Hawk watched the Lance Corporal’s face, seeing the intense concentration there.

The rifle cracked one last time.

Hawk’s eye was glued to the scope, watching the distant target. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the black circle of the target was abruptly obscured by the scoring disk, held directly over its center. A bullseye.

Fifty rounds. Fifty hits in the ten-ring. A perfect 250.

Gallo pushed himself up from the ground, a triumphant exhaustion on his face. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes finding Hawk’s. The fear was gone. The respect was gone. All that was left was the ghost of that smug, punchable grin from three months ago, now amplified by a victory earned on his enemy’s home turf.

A flicker of pure, unadulterated triumph flashed in Gallo's eyes. The look was unmistakable. I won. You came after me, and I beat you at your own game.

The obstacle to Hawk's revenge suddenly seemed insurmountable. Gallo had followed the rules to the letter, performed with a skill that was beyond reproach, and was about to walk off this range with a perfect score and the ultimate bragging rights. Justice, it seemed, was not going to be served today.