The General

Chapter 7.

​The local shooting range was a stark, industrial contrast to the soft domesticity of the Smith kitchen. The air here was thick with the sharp, metallic tang of cordite and the rhythmic, percussive crack-crack-crack of lead meeting paper. It was a place of focus and cold mechanical precision- the exact environment where Victor Bennett seemed to finally make sense.

​Archer was in his element, his earlier restless energy channeled into a focused, almost manic joy. He was halfway through his second magazine, leaning into his stance with the effortless muscle memory of a man who had spent the last nine months with a rifle as his closest companion.

​"Watch this, Bri!" Archer hollered over the roar of the muffs. He squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession, the paper target downrange twitching with every impact. He pulled the lever, bringing the sheet back to the booth. The holes were tight, centered mostly in the nine and ten rings. It was impressive work- the kind of shooting that earned medals and saved lives.

​"Top that, little sis!" Archer grinned, swabbing his forehead with his sleeve and stepping aside to make room.

​Briar stepped up to the booth, her boots crunching on the spent brass casings littering the concrete floor. She felt a strange, electric hum under her skin. It wasn't just the noise or the adrenaline; it was the fact that Victor was standing exactly six feet behind her, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his icy blue eyes fixed on her with the unblinking intensity of a hawk. He hadn't said a word since they arrived, but his presence was a heavy, silent pressure against her back.

​She reached for the handgun, her fingers steady as she checked the chamber. She took what she thought was her best stance- feet shoulder-width apart, arms locked, chin tucked. She breathed out, the world narrowing down to the front sight post and the small red circle fifty feet away.

​Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

​The recoil jolted up her arms, a familiar, jarring vibration. She emptied the magazine, her jaw set in a hard line. When the target zipped back to the booth, the results were clear: four holes clustered tightly, but they were all two inches to the left of the bullseye.

​"Not bad," Victor’s voice rumbled from behind her, cutting through the muffled ringing in her ears. "For having a poor stance."

​Briar stiffened, her eyebrows furrowing as she turned to look at him. She felt the sass in her chest flare up. "A poor stance? I’ve been shooting like this since I was twelve. My groupings are better than most of the guys who come here."

​Victor didn't flinch at her sass. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his large frame was impossible to ignore. He was a wall of muscle and discipline, his shadow completely swallowing hers. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering just an inch above her shoulder- a silent, professional request for permission.

​Briar looked into those piercing blue eyes and gave him one firm, resolute nod.

​His hand settled on her shoulder, the weight of it surprising her. It wasn't heavy, but it was authoritative. He pushed her shoulder back slightly, correcting a slouch she hadn't even realized she had.

"You’re tensing your dominant side," he murmured, his voice low and vibrating right next to her ear. "You’re fighting the recoil before it even happens."

​He bent down slightly, his proximity sending a jolt through her that had nothing to do with the gun. He tapped the inside of her lead foot with the toe of his boot, nudging her leg outward to widen her base. Then, he placed his other hand briefly on her waist, shifting her center of gravity forward.

​"Lower," he commanded. "Drive into the floor, not away from it."

​He stood back up to his full height, the sheer difference in their stature becoming even more obvious as he loomed over her. The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. He smelled like woodsmoke, cold steel, and something uniquely masculine that made Briar’s breath catch in her throat.

​"Try that," he said, taking a single step back but remaining close enough that she could feel the air move when he breathed.

​Briar reloaded, her heart hammering against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. She settled into the new stance Victor had carved out for her. It felt strange- sturdier, more aggressive. She sighted the target, squeezed the trigger, and felt the gun become an extension of her arm rather than a tool she was battling.

​Crack. Crack. Crack.

​She pulled the target back. Three holes. One ragged, black void in the exact center of the red bullseye.

​Briar let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. She turned to look at Victor, expecting a nod or a simple "good."

​Instead, Victor was looking at the target with a dark, contemplative expression.

"You’d be a good soldier," he said, his voice devoid of his usual clinical detachment. It was a genuine compliment, delivered with the weight of a General’s seal.

​Briar tilted her head, her blonde ponytail swaying.

"Maybe," she said, her brown eyes dancing with a hint of defiance. "But I don't think I’d last long in your world, General. I don't like taking orders from a higher authority. I’m a bit too fond of my own mind."

​Victor’s mouth did that thing again- the ghost of a curve, a silent acknowledgement of her spirit. "The best soldiers are the ones who think for themselves, Briar. They’re just the hardest ones to break."

Archer jogged back from the far end of the lane with his own sheet of paper. He held it up proudly; it was a masterpiece of tactical precision, exactly what you’d expect from a seasoned specialist. "See that? That’s what nine months of boredom and taxpayer-funded ammo gets you."

​Archer leaned in close to Briar’s ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur as he nudged her elbow.

"Watch him now," he whispered, nodding toward Victor. "The General doesn't just shoot. He deletes things."

​Victor stepped up to the line. The transition was instantaneous. The man who had just been adjusting Briar’s stance with a quiet, almost gentle touch vanished. In his place stood a weapon.

​The air around him seemed to turn lethal. He didn't fidget; he didn't take deep, calming breaths. He simply raised his service pistol. His eyes, usually so icy and observant, turned into something predatory and cold.

​Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

​It was a rhythmic, terrifying sound. He didn't seem to aim- he just knew where the target was. The recoil was absorbed into his massive frame as if it didn't exist. He fired ten rounds in less than five seconds, his movements a blur of terrifyingly efficient grace.

​When he pulled the target back, there wasn't a grouping. There was just one large, scorched hole in the dead center of the paper where the bullseye used to be. He had put every single bullet through the exact same entrance.

​Victor engaged the safety and laid the gun down on the bench with a click that sounded final. He didn't look proud; he didn't even look satisfied. He looked like he had just performed a basic, mundane task, like tying his shoes.

​"God, I love watching that," Archer breathed, looking at the target with genuine awe. "It’s like he’s got a magnet in the paper."

​Victor turned back to the siblings, the lethal aura fading as he smoothed the front of his tactical vest. His gaze landed on Briar, looking for her reaction.

​Briar was staring at the scorched hole in the paper, her chest tight. She had seen her brother shoot a thousand times, but this was different. This was a man who didn't miss- not in a fight, not in a conversation, and clearly not with his heart once he decided on a target.

​"Data proven," Victor said, his eyes locking onto hers.

​"I’ll say," Briar whispered, her voice a bit breathy. She looked up at him, seeing the ink on his arms and the absolute iron in his soul.

​Victor didn't reply with words. He just reached out and snagged the target sheet he had just destroyed, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into the bin.

"We’re done here," he rumbled. "Archer, get the bags. Your sister looks like she needs some air."

​As they walked out into the bright, blinding afternoon sun, Briar felt the recoil of the morning finally hitting her. She had come to the range to show off, to prove she wasn't "soft," but as she glanced at Victor’s broad back, she realized she had walked into a much more dangerous game.