Chapter 6: The Unseen Round

Chapter 6: The Unseen Round

The shooting was over, but the test was not.

A murmur of disbelief and admiration rippled down the firing line. The tower NCO, his voice laced with a rare note of respect, announced over the loudspeaker, "Lane fourteen, shooter Gallo, that's a possible two-fifty. Outstanding shooting, Marine."

Gallo’s fellow MP from a few lanes down let out a whoop of celebration. "Yeah, Vinnie! Show 'em how it's done!"

For a long moment, Gallo simply lay there in the dirt, the rifle still warm against his cheek, savoring the victory. It was sweeter than any medal. He had stared into the abyss of Sergeant Hawk Riley's cold fury and had not blinked. He had taken the man's crushing pressure, his silent, suffocating scrutiny, and had forged it into a perfect score. He had walked into the king's castle and burned it down with the king's own weapons. The memory of that night on the road, of being dressed down by Corporal Miller while Hawk watched impassively, was finally erased, replaced by this moment of absolute vindication.

He pushed himself to his feet, a deliberate, theatrical motion. He didn't dust the dirt from his utilities. He wore the grime like a badge of honor. He allowed a slow, arrogant smile—the very same punchable grin that was seared into Hawk’s memory—to spread across his face as he turned to look at the man who had been his tormentor.

"Something to say, Sergeant?" Gallo asked, his voice dripping with condescension. It was a flagrant act of disrespect, a Lance Corporal goading a Sergeant on his own range, but Gallo felt untouchable, shielded by the armor of his perfect score.

Hawk’s expression was unreadable, carved from granite. His eyes were flat, his mouth a thin, hard line. He didn't acknowledge the taunt. He didn't acknowledge the perfect score. To him, the qualification was still in progress. The final, most critical step remained. A step where a single moment of carelessness was more damning than fifty missed shots.

"The course of fire is not complete, Lance Corporal," Hawk said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the celebratory atmosphere. "Clear your weapon."

The final commands echoed from the tower, a familiar litany that every Marine knew by heart.

"CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE! UNLOAD! SHOW CLEAR!"

Across the line, the metallic symphony of clearing procedures began. A hundred bolts were locked to the rear with a satisfying clack. A hundred magazines were dropped. A hundred safety selectors were clicked into the "SAFE" position. It was a sacred ritual, the final prayer of the rifleman, ensuring the tool of war was rendered harmless.

Hawk's entire world narrowed to the man in front of him. His predator's eyes were not on the weapon's chamber, but on Gallo's hands, his face, his posture. He saw the tension in Gallo's shoulders relax, the subtle shift in his weight that signaled he believed the trial was over. He saw the arrogant haste in his movements.

Gallo performed the initial steps flawlessly, his hands moving with the muscle memory of his perfect performance. He dropped his magazine, locked the bolt to the rear, and placed the weapon on safe. Then came the moment of truth. The shooter must present the open chamber and magazine well to their coach for a visual and physical inspection. They were to hold that position until the coach, and only the coach, gave the final all-clear. It was a transfer of responsibility, a sacred trust between shooter and instructor.

One by one, down the line, coaches knelt, peered into chambers, and gave their clearance. "Lane twelve is clear!" "Lane thirteen, clear!"

Gallo, his smile fixed in place, turned and presented his rifle to Hawk. He held it out with a flourish, the open ejection port facing up, a gesture that said, See? Perfect. Just like everything else I do.

Hawk knelt slowly, his movements deliberate. He didn't just glance. He leaned in, his face inches from the weapon, his eyes inspecting the empty chamber, the magazine well, the face of the bolt. He was taking his time, drawing the moment out, letting Gallo stand there in the presentation position, a supplicant offering his weapon for judgment.

Gallo’s patience, thin at the best of times and now buoyed by an ocean of arrogance, began to fray. He saw the other shooters finishing their clearing procedures, getting to their feet, their day's work done. He was being singled out, made to wait. He saw it not as a safety procedure, but as one last, petty act of dominance by a Sergeant who had lost.

And in that moment of arrogant haste, he made his mistake.

Assuming the inspection was complete, wanting to be the one to end the confrontation, Gallo snapped the rifle back before Hawk had given the command.

The sound was sharp, definitive, and utterly catastrophic. A loud, metallic CLACK as the bolt release was slapped and the bolt carrier group shot forward on an empty chamber.

It was a sound that broke every rule. A sound that screamed of complacency and disrespect for the weapon. It was the gunshot without the bullet, the ultimate sin on a live firing range.

The effect was instantaneous.

Every sound on the range ceased. The low murmur of conversation, the rustle of gear, the distant hum of a generator—it all vanished. The other coaches froze. The shooters who were packing their gear stopped mid-motion. Every head, every pair of eyes, turned toward lane fourteen. They all knew what that sound meant. They all knew what was coming.

The silence stretched for a single, heart-stopping second.

Then, Hawk Riley’s voice erupted, a physical force that rolled across the range like a shockwave. It was not the controlled, cutting tone of an instructor. It was the roar of a man who had just witnessed the desecration of his temple. It was the voice of pure, distilled authority, laced with all the cold fury he had held in check for three long months.

"GET THE FUCK OFF MY RANGE!"

Gallo flinched as if he'd been struck. The color drained from his face for the second time that day, replaced by a ghastly, mottled white. The triumphant smile dissolved into a mask of slack-jawed horror. Confusion warred with terror in his eyes. "But... Sergeant, I shot a two-fifty..."

"I DON'T GIVE A GODDAMN IF YOU SHOT A THREE-HUNDRED!" Hawk bellowed, his voice resonating with absolute power. He stood to his full height, towering over the now-trembling Lance Corporal. "You just closed the bolt on this weapon without my clearance! You think this is a game? You think your score gives you the right to ignore the single most important safety rule we have? You are a danger to yourself and every other Marine on this line!"

He pointed a single, trembling finger toward the exit path behind the bleachers. The finger was an executioner's sword.

"You are disqualified. Your score is zero. Now pack your gear and get the hell out of my sight before I have you thrown out. NOW!"

The public humiliation was absolute. A hundred Marines watched in stunned silence as Vincent Gallo, the man who had just achieved a perfect score, was stripped of his victory and cast out in utter disgrace. His name would be marked on the official roster with a stark, red "DQ-SAFETY." It was a black mark far worse than any trumped-up traffic ticket. It was a stain of incompetence and recklessness that would follow him, whispered in barracks and scrawled on bathroom walls.

Gallo stood frozen for a moment, his world collapsing around him. The perfect score was ash. The victory was a lie. He had been so close. He had won, and in the final, crucial second, his own arrogance had handed his enemy the loaded gun.

Wordlessly, his hands shaking so badly he could barely function, Gallo gathered his magazines and gear. He didn't dare look at Hawk. He couldn't bear to see the look of cold, grim satisfaction he knew would be on the Sergeant’s face. He slung his rifle, the instrument of his triumph and his downfall, and began the long, lonely walk off the range, the silent stares of a hundred of his peers burning into his back like a physical brand. His career wasn't just in ruins; it was a smoldering crater.