I stepped forward, took my stance, and let the part of me they’d never met slip into place. The moment my fingers wrap around the grip, muscle memory taking over like an old friend sliding beside me. I breathe in, then out. My pulse slows. The world blurs at the edges as the sights align, the weight of the pistol melting into my palm like it belongs there.

Then—five shots. Crisp. Clean. Controlled.

I don’t even need to check the target. I already know.

Jackson walks over with a cocky grin that fades the moment he sees it: a single ragged hole, right at the center. All five rounds nested so tightly together it looks like one shot. He blinks. His friends stop mid-joke. The laughter dies like someone flipped a switch.

The range goes silent. Then footsteps approach behind us, firm and steady.

The owner of the range—grizzled, bearded, eyes like flint—steps forward. I know the look in his eyes. I’ve seen it overseas, from guys who’ve done the real work. He sees it in me too.

“Ma’am,” he says, almost respectfully, like he’s trying to piece together who I really am. “That grouping… that’s not normal.”

He glances at Jackson, then back at me. “You special ops?”

I offer a polite smile. “I work logistics.”

Jackson scoffs behind me, trying to salvage some pride. “She probably got lucky. Beginner’s fluke.”

The owner doesn’t even acknowledge him. His eyes stay locked on me, measuring. Calculating.

“Ma’am,” he says again, his voice lower this time, “if you ever need a private bay, it’s yours. No charge.”

I nod, step away from the lane, and hand the pistol back to my brother, who now looks like he’s holding a hot potato instead of his pride and joy. His hand trembles just slightly as he holsters it.

We ride home in silence, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to our clothes. He tries to act normal, but I can see him sneaking glances at me in the rearview mirror, eyes narrowed, thoughts swirling.

“You’ve, uh… you’ve been to the range before?” he finally asks.

I look out the window. “Once or twice.”

He doesn’t press. Maybe he senses that whatever’s under the surface isn’t something he wants to poke at too hard.

When I get home, I lock the door behind me and exhale. I should feel vindicated. Instead, I feel… exposed.

I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and stare at the sink. A year ago, I was in a safehouse in Eastern Europe, crouched beside a blown-out window, whispering coordinates into a comm unit while tracking a known arms dealer through a sniper scope. That night ended in silence—my shot, his breath stolen mid-sentence, the getaway crew scattering like mice in floodlight.

And now I’m here, watching my faucet drip.

The next morning, I’m back at the base, walking across concrete and shadow, nodding to the guard at the gate who thinks I’m just another pencil-pusher. Inside the main building, the buzz of printers, phones, and low chatter fills the air. I enter the logistics office, where dull gray walls and outdated computers hide the pulse of something much more alive underneath.

“Morning, Olive,” says Pete, our supply manager, sipping bad coffee. “You gonna finish that inventory report?”

“Already did. It’s on your desk.”

He blinks. “Seriously?”

I just smile.

I head down to Sublevel 2—restricted access. No nameplates, no windows. A keycard and retinal scan later, I’m walking through the hallway that smells like rubber, oil, and cold air.

Inside the briefing room, Commander Ruiz waits. He’s not in uniform today, which is how I know this isn’t an official meeting. Just the two of us.

“You made an impression this weekend,” he says without looking up from his tablet.

I raise an eyebrow. “At the range?”

He chuckles. “You’re a ghost, Olive. But ghosts leave echoes. Word got around. The owner used to work Tier 1. Sent a message up the pipeline. Wants to know who the hell the girl was with the perfect grouping.”

I sigh, annoyed but not surprised. “He read me.”

“He read something. Didn’t name you. Just said, quote, ‘someone who doesn’t miss.’”

I cross my arms. “So what’s the ask?”

Ruiz puts down the tablet and looks me dead in the eye.

“There’s an asset extraction. Small team. Off books. Balkan corridor. Hot zone. We need someone who can move like a shadow and shoot like thunder.”

I lean back, my pulse already settling into that familiar rhythm. “When?”

“Wheels up in twelve.”

I nod, and just like that, the quiet sister who counts boxes disappears.

By nightfall, I’m in a nondescript van bumping along a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the smell of diesel and cold earth swirling around us. Two other operatives ride with me—Stone and Mara. We don’t talk much. There’s no need. This is not their first mission, and they know better than to ask questions about who I am or what I’ve done.

The target is holed up in a farmhouse two clicks from the Serbian border. High-value intel. Ex-military turned contractor, now selling secrets to anyone with the cash. Our job: extract him alive. Secondary: secure all data and eliminate hostiles.

As we approach, I slip into the calm that only comes in moments like this. My breathing slows. My vision sharpens. Every sound is magnified—the wind through broken shutters, the creak of leather, the click of a safety release.

We breach silently. The first two rooms are clear. Stone covers the hallway while Mara secures the rear. I find the target in a basement room lit by a single bare bulb, seated at a table typing on a laptop.

He doesn’t hear me.

I raise my sidearm. “Hands up. Now.”

He freezes. Slowly turns. “Who are you?”

I say nothing. He doesn’t need to know my name.

Outside, I hear gunfire—two sharp bursts. Then silence.

“Extraction compromised,” Mara’s voice hisses through my earpiece. “Two tangos down. Three more incoming. We need to move.”

I cuff the target, grab the laptop, and head upstairs just as bullets hammer into the walls. We dive behind cover, return fire. Stone takes out one with a headshot so clean it doesn’t even spatter.

I count rounds. Four. Three. Two. The rhythm is sacred. I never waste one.

Then the last hostile charges through the door, screaming, eyes wild.

I raise my pistol and put one clean round through his forehead.

Silence again.

We exfil fast, barely beating the dawn. As the helicopter rises into the cold morning sky, the farmhouse a shrinking dot below, I let the adrenaline drain from my body like smoke from a spent cartridge.

Back on base, the debrief is short. The brass nods, file folders shuffle, and I fade into the background again.

By Monday, I’m back in the office, sipping burnt coffee, nodding at Pete like I didn’t just kill three men and save national secrets.

Jackson texts me.

“Hey. About Saturday. That was… wow. You’re full of surprises.”

I don’t respond right away. What could I say that wouldn’t shatter the delicate illusion he still clings to?

Later that evening, he calls. I let it ring. Then, on the fifth try, I pick up.

“Hey,” he says awkwardly. “So… you wanna hit the range again? I could use some pointers.”

There’s hesitation in his voice. A kind of humility I’ve never heard from him before.

I smile to myself. “Sure,” I say. “Next Saturday?”

“Yeah. Cool. And… Olive?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.”

I pause. Not for long. Just enough.

“Thanks, Jackson.”

I hang up and stare at my reflection in the kitchen window—half-shadow, half-light.

Maybe I’m both.

The quiet sister who counts boxes.

And the ghost who never misses.