Page 26 of Silver Elite

We’re shooting guns in the desert today. Sniper exercises. In other words, my chance to turn things around.

When we ran ops in the city, we took hover-helos, but for the desert we board a speed jet. It’s my first time flying in a plane, which surprises my friends.

“Really? You’ve never been on a plane before?” Lyddie says from the seat next to mine.

“My uncle and I never had the Lux credits to spend,” I admit. “We took the train if we ever needed to travel far distances.”

“Eh, flying’s overrated,” Kaine says from my other side. “You haven’t been missing much.”

“Have you flown a lot?” I ask him.

“A handful of times. My mom liked to use her leisure passes to take us to Heath’s End,” he explains, referring to a small island in the southwest corner of the Continent, near Ward V. “You can only get there by air since there’s nowhere to dock.”

“You’re so lucky. I’ve never seen the ocean,” Lyddie tells him. “My parents like to leisure in the mountains.”

“I love the ocean,” Kaine says. “Although the first time I flew over it, I got the most intense motion sickness and threw up all over my mother.”

I snort. “Sexy.”

He bends toward me so he can whisper in my ear. “Sneak into my bed tonight and I’ll show you sexy.”

A shiver runs through me. Oh boy. It’s been a few days since my grief-fueled visit to Kaine’s bed, and other than the morning after, this is the first time he’s bringing it up. I don’t think he told anyone, because I haven’t heard any whispers or received any questions. Me, I didn’t breathe a word of it, not even to Lyddie. She would tease me relentlessly if she found out I made out with Kaine. In the barracks, no less.

I can’t say I’m against it happening again, but not in a roomful of other people. And certainly not as a way to forget that one of our friends was killed.

We’re in the air for less than an hour before it’s time to land. We touch down on a narrow strip and climb into trucks that take us to the Command’s desert camp. The area is not a flat expanse, but a lot of hills and craggy outcrops. We were given another set of uniforms this morning—desert fatigues. I have to admit it’s nice to wear something other than navy blue or black. The new getup makes it easier to blend in to this landscape.

We start with easy targets, and I nail all my shots. I do well enough that Jones raises a brow and drawls, “Someone’s been practicing after hours.”

Someone’s been making shots like that since she was ten years old.

Kess sneers. “It’s just a fluke.”

“I’ve been up all night reading sniper tips on my source,” I lie. “How to account for the wind. Different magnifications. It’s actually a lot more interesting than I thought.”

Kaine’s biting his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. Lash looks doubtful. Meanwhile, Lyddie’s eyes are bright with hope.

“See, I told you you’ve got potential! And sometimes books can teach you things!”

Oh, this girl. I always want to give her a hug. She’s growing on me in a way I never thought possible. She’s just so…positive. Yes, she likes to gossip, but her heart is enormous.

“Let’s reposition to higher ground,” Ford barks. “One pair at a time. Darlington, Eversea. You’re up first.”

Great. I’m paired with Ivy.

From her sour expression, she’s not happy about it, either.

I sling the rifle strap over my shoulder and head for the path. The two of us make the climb up to the next perch, where I glance at her and say, “You want to spot first?”

“Fine,” she mutters.

I position myself on my belly with the rifle in front of me. It’s the REMM-4 that I’m obsessed with. I wish we were doing this in the shroud of darkness so I could test out that night sight, but I suppose a day exercise offers everyone a better introduction to the New and Improved Recruit 56.

Ivy settles beside me with a pair of binoculars as the blistering sun beats down on our heads. We lie prone on top of the outcrop, our camo uniforms blending seamlessly with the arid landscape. The desert stretches out before us, a vast expanse of hills, sun-bleached sand, and jagged rocks, the horizon shimmering in the relentless heat. Despite how barren it is, it’s oddly gorgeous out here.

Squinting against the glare, I adjust the scope of the rifle, my fingers trembling with anticipation. It feels like forever since I’ve had the opportunity to shoot. I’ve been firing guns every day for weeks, yet there was no thrill. No excitement to take—and make —a challenging shot.

Now I’ve given myself permission to rely on my instincts. Or rather, the Uprising has.

I feel freer than I have in a very long time.

Ivy adjusts her binoculars, scanning the horizon for our first target. We don’t know ahead of time where the targets are. It’s the job of the spotter to locate them. We each get five shots, and all the targets are outfitted with sensors that will relay to our instructors where we hit.

“Target one acquired,” Ivy says.

“Where?”

“At your two o’clock, about five hundred yards out.” A hint of challenge laces her tone. “Might be too much for you. The wind sucks.”

No shit. Tiny grains of sand keep flying into my face. This is a terrible day to shoot. Or maybe the windy weather is precisely why Ford chose today for long-range targets.

“I think I can manage.” I locate the target in my scope. It looks like a sandbag on a pole.

With a steady hand, I adjust my aim again to compensate for the wind and the distance. The crosshairs settle on the target’s chest, a perfect bull’s-eye in my sights. My finger hovers over the trigger, waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, I squeeze the trigger, and the shot rings out across the landscape.

The bullet cuts through the wind with lethal precision.

Dead center.

Ivy swivels her head toward me.

“Been practicing,” I say lightly. “Where’s target two?”

“Six o’clock. Six hundred yards.”

I lean forward, but before I can take aim, something else catches my eye.

A motorcycle is approaching the camp at the base of the hill, where the rest of our group congregates. Tires kicking up dirt. A sleek body curled over it. The rider isn’t wearing a helmet or navy blues. He’s in desert khakis and a white shirt, his dark hair messy from the wind blowing through it.

I find him in the scope and zoom in. That face. I focus on his lips, remembering how close they were to mine the night at the pit. His eyes are impossibly blue in the daylight.

I’m very aware of Ivy’s presence. She raises her binoculars. “Captain is here,” she says.

As if to punctuate that, Ford’s voice echoes through our earpieces. “Be extra good today, kids. Got an audience. Don’t make me look bad. First pair. Next target.”

This second target is more difficult. The angle, and the direction of the wind, will be a challenge.

I steady my breathing and line up the shot. I feel Ivy’s gaze boring into the side of my head, her silent scrutiny almost palpable. I push aside the pressure and focus all my attention on the target.

The report of my rifle echoes through the air. I connect with the target, another perfect bull’s-eye boring into its center.

Ivy is gaping at me now. Once could’ve been a fluke. Twice? Not so much.

“Who was that? Eversea?” Ford’s impressed voice fills my ear.

“Darlington,” I respond, a bit smug.

“Well. I suppose even a broken clock works twice a day.”

I glare at him even though he can’t see me.

“Next target.”

Target three is about eight hundred yards out. This angle is even more difficult. I glance at Ivy, who holds up her hand.

“No. Wind’s shifting. Wait.”

She’s got good instincts, I’ll give her that.

I wait, then take the shot.

Bull’s-eye.

And then the next one.

Bull’s-eye.

And the next one.

Bull’s-eye.

Yet my comm remains maddeningly silent.

I shift the scope to where Cross stands with Ford near the white canvas mess tent. They’re drinking coffee and laughing about something. The sight makes me bristle. I know they’ll see my accuracy results later when everything is transmitted to their tablets, but I want them to pay attention now. Why am I even trying if not to impress these assholes?

Grumbling under my breath, I survey the camp. It’s twelve hundred yards away, give or take. I sweep my scope over the area until I find a suitable target.

“Hey, LT,” I say to Ford over the comm.

He sounds annoyed. “What?”

“On your left. The table near the firepit. Is that your canteen?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. Taking out a target from this distance, with the wind howling and the sun beating down on us—it’s reckless, even for me.

I adjust my stance as I peer through the scope again. The canteen’s outline is blurred by the heat haze that dances on the horizon. The wind snakes underneath my ponytail, adding another layer of complexity to an already daunting task.

You only live once, right?

I take the shot.

An explosion of water shoots out in all directions as I puncture a hole in the metal. Liquid pools on the table and splashes the dirt beneath it.

I smile.

Silence falls over the comm channel.

Ivy’s expression is a mix of shock and disbelief. Through the scope, I see the surprise mirrored in Ford’s eyes. But not Cross’s. His lips curve, and then I hear his voice in my earpiece.

“Nobody likes a show-off, Dove.”

—

I killed it today. Indisputably. And yet, when we check our scores for the day in the mess hall later, the readout staring back at me from the screen doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Sixty-five percent.

I bolt to my feet and stomp over to the table where our instructors are chatting among themselves.

“Not a single other recruit in this class could make the shot I made today,” I growl at them. “And you gave me a sixty-five? Are you joking?”

Xavier Ford lifts his head, dark eyes glinting with humor. “The captain was the one scoring you today. Take it up with him.”

Fucking asshole.

—

I score a 70 after our next Combat class, despite slamming Ivy’s ethereal face into the mats.

Seventy-two in Moving Targets, despite only missing three shots out of thirty.

Sixty-five in Archery. I deserve that one.

Knife Throwing? Sixty-two! That one is wholly unwarranted. My knives sank into every target like a blade through butter. Perfection.

“He’s doing it on purpose,” I complain at afternoon meal after enduring more than a week of mediocre scores.

Lyddie chews her mashed potatoes and tries to reassure me. “No. The instructors are fair. They wouldn’t give you low scores for no reason.”

That’s exactly what Cross is doing. And he enlisted the other instructors to follow his lead.

It’s infuriating. Now that I’m making a sincere effort, it isn’t being recognized. I might not be an overachiever like Lyddie or Bryce, but I deserve recognition, damn it.

In shielding class, I’m somewhat mollified when Amira tells me I have the strongest shield of anyone in here.

“It’s truly impressive,” she says, and I pretend to blush at the encouragement when really, it had better be impressive. I trained with Julian Ash.

Every time I see Amira, the temptation to reach out gets stronger, but I refuse to endanger myself after what happened to Betima. I can’t be too careful. Today, though, it occurs to me that I now possess the ability to verify the risk.

I check in with Declan after class to ask, “Is Amira a network operative? Is she undercover here?”

His response is not at all useful. “We cannot divulge the identities of our operatives.”

At first, I take that to mean she’s definitely one of us. But then I test that theory by asking, “Is Lyddie De Velde an operative?” and get the same generic rejoinder.

“We cannot divulge the identities of our operatives.”

I try Bryce and receive the identical answer. I’m certain both those women are not Modified, especially since I’ve been in Lyddie’s mind and she showed no reaction to the psychic intrusion. Unless, like me, she’s mastered the ability to hide the physical shock, but I don’t know many Mods who can actually do that.

In the afternoon, we run another mock op on the base. I’m paired with Bryce, which means for sure we’ll score 100 percent. She’s good, and she’s fast. We have one minute to scale a wall, plant an explosive on a second-floor window ledge, and reach the safe zone before the charge goes off.

We nail it. Bryce even smiles at me in exuberance after we finish. That’s how much we nailed this op.

And yet at dinner, when our daily results come in, Bryce scores 100.

I score 80.

Eighty! For doing the same thing.

I growl out loud and Kaine laughs at me. “All right,” he relents, “I’m starting to think maybe it’s a thing.”

“I told you it was a thing.”

I’m still fuming about it in the showers later. I know this is Cross’s doing. And I know I need to fix it before I lose more time. Only a month remains of the Program.

I open a path and reach out to Declan again. “I’m not going to make it into Silver Block, let alone Elite. Captain hates me.”

“Adrienne won’t be pleased,” is the response.

“But I have an idea. Can you get me schematics for the officers’ quarters? All I know is it’s a separate building somewhere on the base.”

“See what I can do.”

He contacts me as I’m sliding into bed, projecting a blueprint into my mind. It’s a quick flash, and I make him do it again so I can try to memorize it.

“Thanks, I got it.”

Now comes the hard part.