My Arrogant Business Partner Bet Me $100 I Couldn't Hit a Target — Until My Old ID Card and Scar Exposed Who I Really Was to My Estranged Son
Part 1
“Let’s see if the old veteran can even hit paper, or if it’s time he handed over his remaining shares,” Julian declared loudly.
As I rolled up my sleeve to steady my aim, a nineteen-year-old recruit named Leo froze, eyeing the jagged five-inch shrapnel scar stretching across my forearm.
Before lifting the rifle, I slapped my faded black Department of Defense credentials onto the table next to his cash, exposing a classified rank Julian had spent ten years pretending I never held.
The air in the private shooting lodge, usually thick with the metallic tang of gunpowder and oil, felt suddenly charged. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off the polished walnut gun racks that lined one wall. Beyond the soundproofed glass, I could hear the rhythmic *thwack* of rounds hitting targets, a steady pulse to the escalating tension.
Julian Croft, my business partner, was already holding court. He leaned against the counter, a custom-engraved rifle propped casually beside him. Three young apprentices, no older than twenty, hung on his every word, their faces bright with aspiration. They wore matching Croft & Holloway branded vests, a uniform I had helped design.
His laugh, sharp and dismissive, cut through the background noise.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence!” Julian announced, his voice carrying easily across the open space. He made no effort to lower it.
He pushed off the counter and stepped closer, the crisp $100 bill fluttering from his fingers. It landed with a soft *slap* right next to my elbow. The green paper seemed almost luminous against the worn laminate.
“Let’s see if the old veteran can even hit paper, or if it’s time he handed over his remaining shares,” he declared, his gaze locking onto my hands.
My right hand, the one I used to zero in the finest rifle scopes, twitched almost imperceptibly. Julian noticed. He always did. He used it as a measuring stick for my perceived decline.
A snicker rippled through the young apprentices. Julian shot them a conspiratorial grin, his eyes gleaming. He was putting on a show, making a point. This wasn’t about the $100. It was about dominance.
I didn’t answer him directly. I moved towards the closest shooting lane, the familiar weight of my own rifle, a classic Winchester Model 70, already in my grip. I hadn’t even meant to shoot today. I just came to check the latest delivery of scope mounts.
The young apprentices followed, forming a semicircle behind Julian. They watched my every move, a mixture of curiosity and thinly veiled judgment on their faces. They had heard Julian’s stories about me. The “eccentric master.” The “old-timer losing his edge.”
I reached for the standard-issue shooting glasses and ear protection from the rack. My movements were slow, deliberate, as if I had all the time in the world. I could feel Julian’s impatient glare boring into the back of my head.
As I pulled on the ear defenders, muffling the world to a dull roar, I started to roll up the sleeve of my workshop shirt. The fabric clung slightly, damp with the humidity in the air. I needed a full range of motion for a proper stance, a clear view of my forearm against the rifle stock.
It was then that Leo, the youngest of Julian’s recruits, caught my eye. He was a nineteen-year-old, all lean angles and nervous energy, always watching, always learning. He had only been with us for six months.
His eyes weren’t on my face, or my hands, or even the rifle. They were fixed on my left forearm, where the sleeve now revealed a stark, raised line of scar tissue. It was jagged, a pale white against my tanned skin, about five inches long, stretching from just below my elbow to my wrist.
Leo froze. His jaw tightened, and the light went out of his eyes, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. He wasn’t looking at a simple wound. He was *studying* it, as if trying to recall something half-forgotten.
Julian, oblivious to Leo’s sudden stillness, clapped his hands together.
“Well, come on, Marcus. Don’t keep the boys waiting,” he urged, his voice edged with false joviality. “Let’s see that steady hand. Or is it not so steady these days?”
He gestured towards the target retriever controls. The target stood far downrange, a tiny white square against the black backstop.
I ignored him, my gaze briefly meeting Leo’s. There was a flicker of something in the young man’s eyes, an unexpected recognition. But I dismissed it, turning my attention to the task at hand. This was Julian’s game, and I had to play.
I took my time, setting the rifle down on the bench. My hand reached into the front pocket of my work pants. Not for a bullet, not for a cleaning cloth.
Instead, my fingers found the smooth, cool plastic rectangle. It had been tucked away for years, almost forgotten, a relic of a life I’d deliberately buried under the layers of Holloway & Croft Custom Restoration.
I pulled it out. It was a faded, black Department of Defense identity card. The plastic was slightly scuffed, the corners worn smooth, but the metallic sheen of the emblem was still clear. My photo, younger, sterner, stared out.
With a deliberate, unhurried motion, I slapped it down onto the counter. It landed with a soft, authoritative thud, right beside Julian’s crisp $100 bill. The contrast was stark: the new money, fresh from the bank, next to the old, battered proof of a classified past.
The sound seemed to echo in the now-silent range. Julian’s mouth, which had been open to deliver another barb, snapped shut. His confident smirk vanished. He stared at the card, then at me, then back at the card.
The apprentices exchanged confused glances. They had only ever known me as Marcus Holloway, the quiet, meticulous gunsmith. They knew nothing of the official seal, the specific designation.
But Julian knew. His eyes widened slightly as they scanned the printed text, the official insignia, and then the rank. He had spent ten years pretending that particular rank, that specialized role, had never existed. He had built his entire narrative around the idea that I was just a grunt, a simple veteran.
Now, it lay there, undeniable, a silent testament to a truth he had worked so hard to erase.
Part 2
Julian forced a hollow laugh. “An old card, Marcus? Still bluffing with wartime glory?” He waved a dismissive hand.
Leo froze. He saw my scar, recognition flashing: the distinct mark from his mother’s hidden photo.
I lifted the Winchester. The rifle felt right. I sighted.
*Crack. Crack. Crack.* Three perfect shots, each dead center. The target light flashed green.
As I ejected the hot brass, Leo bent quickly. His fingers closed around a spent casing from my lane. He pocketed it, then walked silently out of the range.
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