Page 115 of Silver Elite

I lean forward, but before I can take aim, something else catches my eye.

A motorcycle is approaching the camp at the base of the hill, where the rest of our group congregates. Tires kicking up dirt. A sleek body curled over it. The rider isn’t wearing a helmet or navy blues. He’s in desert khakis and a white shirt, his dark hair messy from the wind blowing through it.

I find him in the scope and zoom in. That face. I focus on his lips, remembering how close they were to mine the night at the pit. His eyes are impossibly blue in the daylight.

I’m very aware of Ivy’s presence. She raises her binoculars. “Captain is here,” she says.

As if to punctuate that, Ford’s voice echoes through our earpieces. “Be extra good today, kids. Got an audience. Don’t make me look bad. First pair. Next target.”

This second target is more difficult. The angle, and the direction of the wind, will be a challenge.

I steady my breathing and line up the shot. I feel Ivy’s gaze boringinto the side of my head, her silent scrutiny almost palpable. I push aside the pressure and focus all my attention on the target.

The report of my rifle echoes through the air. I connect with the target, another perfect bull’s-eye boring into its center.

Ivy is gaping at me now. Once could’ve been a fluke. Twice? Not so much.

“Who was that? Eversea?” Ford’s impressed voice fills my ear.

“Darlington,” I respond, a bit smug.

“Well. I suppose even a broken clock works twice a day.”

I glare at him even though he can’t see me.

“Next target.”

Target three is about eight hundred yards out. This angle is even more difficult. I glance at Ivy, who holds up her hand.

“No. Wind’s shifting. Wait.”

She’s got good instincts, I’ll give her that.

I wait, then take the shot.

Bull’s-eye.

And then the next one.

Bull’s-eye.

And the next one.

Bull’s-eye.

Yet my comm remains maddeningly silent.

I shift the scope to where Cross stands with Ford near the white canvas mess tent. They’re drinking coffee and laughing about something. The sight makes me bristle. I know they’ll see my accuracy results later when everything is transmitted to their tablets, but I want them to pay attentionnow.Why am I even trying if not to impress these assholes?

Grumbling under my breath, I survey the camp. It’s twelve hundred yards away, give or take. I sweep my scope over the area until I find a suitable target.

“Hey, LT,” I say to Ford over the comm.

He sounds annoyed. “What?”

“On your left. The table near the firepit. Is that your canteen?”

“Yeah. Why?”

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