“Give me one tactical reason I’m out!” I screamed, shoving the Captain back as blood dripped from my hands. They laughed when a 17-year-old girl walked into their elite unit, but they didn’t know the scarred, beautiful monster my father built—or the dark secret our commander was hiding from me.

The physical impact of sixty pounds of military-grade gear slamming into my chest nearly took my legs out. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get your ass on the tarmac, Vance, or I’m throwing you off my base myself,” Captain Jax Miller growled, his face inches from mine, smelling of stale coffee and pure malice. Around us, the elite operators of the Apex Phantoms smirked. I was a seventeen-year-old girl entering a world of hardened killers. They wanted me to cry. They wanted me to break.

Instead, I stared directly into Miller’s hostile eyes, my face an unreadable mask of stone. I didn’t say a word. I just hoisted the massive ruck onto my shoulders, the straps digging painfully into my collarbones, and marched out into the brutal 105-degree Arizona heat.

The twelve-mile forced march was pure hell. The sun beat down like a physical weight, cracking the earth beneath our boots. Huge, muscular men—veterans of foreign wars—began to falter, their bodies giving out from heat exhaustion. One massive soldier stumbled and collided heavily into me, nearly knocking us both into the dirt. I caught his weight, shoved him back upright, and kept moving. I survived by running a mental tape of my father’s voice: Control your breathing, Avery. Count the steps. Let the pain fuel you. I crossed the finish line tenth out of fifty.

Captain Miller was waiting, his jaw clenched in frustration. “You think you’re tough because you can walk?” he sneered, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me roughly toward the live-fire range. “Briggs, show this little girl what a real sniper looks like.”

Logan “Guns” Briggs, the unit’s legendary marksman, stepped up to the line. With fluid, arrogant grace, he unleashed ten rounds at a target five hundred yards out, scoring a phenomenal, tight group. The operators hooted and slapped his back.

Miller shoved a fresh magazine into my hands. “Match that, or pack your bags.”

I retrieved my late father’s custom-built bolt-action rifle from its case. The worn wood fit perfectly against my cheek. I dropped to the prone position, ignoring the burning gravel biting into my elbows. I exhaled, found the steady rhythm between my heartbeats, and pulled the trigger. The heavy recoil slammed into my shoulder, a familiar, bruising jolt. I cycled the bolt instantly. Nine more shots tore through the air in a relentless, rhythmic roar.

When the dust settled, the digital monitor updated. The entire unit went completely, chillingly silent. Miller stared at the screen, his face turning pale.

The silence on that range was deafening, but it was only the beginning of Jax Miller’s worst nightmare. What Avery Vance did next in the dark Arizona desert would change everything. The rest of the story is below