Olivia caught the vest, her fingers tightening around the canvas. She didn’t argue, didn’t ask for a replacement. She just slung it over her shoulder and walked out, her boots echoing on the concrete.
Gibbs laughed, shaking his head. That one’s gonna wash out by tomorrow, he said to the room. Outside, Olivia adjusted the vest with a few quick knots, making it fit perfectly, her hands moving with the same precision she’d shown with the rifle.
The terrain run the next morning was brutal. Ten miles over rough ground, full gear, no brakes. Olivia stayed in the middle of the pack, her breathing, even her steps steady.
Tara was right behind her, muttering the whole time. Pick it up, charity case, she hissed. You’re dragging us down.
At the halfway mark, Tara nudged Olivia’s elbow just enough to throw her off. Olivia’s foot caught a rock, and she veered off the path, her ankle twisting as she hit the ground. Captain Harrow saw it.
Mitchell. He roared. Broke formation.
Squad loses points. The group groaned some, shooting her dirty looks. Lance turned his face flushed.
Nice one, Mitchell. Real team player. Olivia didn’t argue.
She got back in line, her jaw tight, and kept running, her limp barely noticeable. When the run ended, Harrow pointed at her. Five extra laps.
Move. The others watched some smirking as Olivia started running again, her breath coming in short gasps. She finished her face slick with sweat, her hands on her knees.
No one offered her water. Tara tossed an empty bottle at her feet. Hydrate with air, she said laughing.
Olivia picked up the bottle, crushed it in her hand, and dropped it in the trash. Not a sound. During a night drill, the cadets were tasked with setting up a perimeter under simulated enemy fire.
Flares lit the sky, and instructors shouted orders creating chaos. Olivia worked alone, securing a rope barrier with steady hands. A cadet named Marcus Stocky and Loud decided she was an easy target.
He grabbed her rope, yanking it free, and tossed it into the mud. Oops, he said grinning. Guess you’re not cut out for this, huh? The others nearby laughed, their flashlights bobbing as they watched.
Olivia knelt, picked up the rope, and started over her fingers, moving methodically. Marcus wasn’t done. He kicked dirt onto her hands, coating the rope in grime.
Keep trying, princess, he said. Maybe you’ll get it by morning. The group roared.
Olivia paused her hands still, then looked up at him. You done? She asked her voice quiet but sharp. Marcus blinked, thrown off, but laughed it off.
She went back to work, her face unreadable, the rope clean again in seconds. Later when the drill ended, Marcus’s own barrier was found loose, costing his squad points. No one saw Olivia near it, but Elena, watching from the sidelines, hid a small smile.
That night in the barracks, Olivia sat on her bunk, pulling an old photo from her bag. It was crease-the-edges worn showing a younger her standing next to a man in a black jacket. His face was blurred, but his posture, shoulders back, eyes sharp, felt like it carried weight.
She traced her finger over the photo, her lips pressing together, then tucked it away when she heard footsteps. Lance walked by, tossing his towel over his shoulder. Better sleep tight, Mitchell, he said.
Tomorrow’s shooting. Don’t choke. Olivia didn’t look at him.
She lay back, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling, her breathing slow and even. The long-range shooting exam was a make-or-break moment. Five shots, 400 meters, five bullseyes, or you’re out.
The cadets lined up, nervous, fiddling with their scopes, whispering about wind speed. Tara went first, missing two shots, her face pale as she stepped back. Lance hit four, cursing under his breath.
Then Olivia walked up. Tara whispered to the girl next to her. Bet she can’t even hold it right.
Olivia settled into position, her movements calm, almost mechanical. Five shots, five perfect hits, dead center. No hesitation, no scope adjustments.
The range officer blinked at the target, then called it out. Mitchell. Perfect score..
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