Pick up a mop and go clean the latrines, kid, this range isn't for street trash, the range master sneered, shoving fifteen-year-old Malik Holloway away from the custom training rifle.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and distant exhaust fumes as I met Grizz behind the abandoned warehouse. He was dressed in dark clothing, a tactical vest slung over his shoulder, a long, slender case in his hand.
“Ready, kid?” he asked, his voice low.
I nodded, adjusting the small backpack I carried. “What’s the plan?”
“Marcus’s security is tight around the main entrances,” Grizz explained, pulling out a pair of binoculars. “But he focused on physical breaches. The cameras are old-school analog, hard-wired, no digital feeds off-site. They run on a closed circuit.”
He pointed to a cluster of cameras mounted high on the exterior walls of Aegis Tactical, visible under the faint glow of streetlights from a distance. “Those need to go. Quietly.”
He opened the slender case. Inside, nestled in foam, was a silenced air rifle. It looked deceptively simple, but the barrel was long, and the scope gleamed dully.
“An air rifle?” I asked, a hint of surprise in my voice.
“Perfect for this,” Grizz said. “Silent, precise. No shell casings. Less likely to trigger an alarm than a live round, even if they’re listening for it. You shoot the lenses out. Not the housings. Just the lenses.”
He looked at me, his eyes serious. “Forty yards away. From that old oak tree over there. You only get one shot per camera. No room for error. Remember your father’s training.”
I took a deep breath, the challenge igniting a familiar spark inside me. Dad had taught me to read the wind, to understand bullet drop, to breathe and squeeze the trigger as if it were an extension of my own will. Forty yards, in the dark, with a precise target. It was a shot I’d practiced countless times in theory, but never with such stakes.
I picked up the rifle. It felt balanced, a natural extension of my arm.
“There are four cameras guarding the perimeter of the loading dock,” Grizz instructed, pointing to a rough sketch on a map. “That’s our entry point. Once they’re down, I can disable the laser grids on the bay doors.”
I moved stealthily towards the old oak tree, its branches providing cover. I found a stable position, knelt, and brought the rifle to my shoulder. The crosshairs of the scope swayed slightly, then settled. I could make out the faint glint of the first camera lens.
I inhaled slowly, steadily. My finger found the trigger. I remembered Dad’s voice, calm and clear: *Patience, son. Become one with the shot.*
*Squeeze.*
A soft hiss. A faint *clink* from the distance. The first camera went dark, its red indicator light vanishing.
I shifted, found the next target. The second camera lens shattered with a barely audible crack. Then the third. Then the fourth. Each shot was clean, precise, silent.
Grizz, who had been watching with his own binoculars, gave a sharp nod. “Good, Malik. Just like your old man.”
We moved quickly, slipping through the now-blinded perimeter. We reached the loading dock doors, their heavy steel sealed tight. Grizz produced a small, sophisticated device and attached it to a control panel near the door. Green lasers, previously invisible, suddenly flickered into existence, crisscrossing the interior.
“Marcus added these,” Grizz whispered. “But Aaron left me the bypass codes.”
His fingers danced over the device’s screen. A quiet *thunk* echoed from inside, and the laser grids winked out of existence. The heavy loading dock door rolled open just enough for us to slip through, revealing a dark, cavernous space beyond.
“The vault is through that door,” Grizz pointed, “and down two flights of stairs. I’ll go. You keep watch. If anyone comes, give me the signal.”
I nodded, gripping the air rifle. We had made it inside. Now, the real hunt began. The hard drive, the truth, was within reach, protected by Dad’s foresight and my own quiet skills.
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