Part 2 — Five Empty Targets
Controlled.
That was the word that entered Daniel Brooks’s mind.
Not confident.
Not experienced.
Controlled.
There was a difference.
Confidence could be manufactured.
Daniel had watched hundreds of young shooters swagger onto a firing line with expensive rifles, famous coaches, and enough arrogance to fill a stadium.
Experience could be disguised too.
A person could imitate posture.
Copy breathing habits.
Watch enough videos to learn where to place their hands.
But control?
Real control was difficult to fake.
Emma Carter walked toward the firing position without looking at the crowd.
She did not hurry.
She did not hesitate.
And, most strangely of all, she did not look at the rifle in her hands.
Daniel slowly lowered the score sheet he had been reading.
Around him, the laughter continued.
Jack Morrison was still smiling.
“You’ll want to put the stock against your shoulder,” he called, drawing another wave of amusement.
Emma gave no response.
Daniel’s expression changed.
She already knew.
He could see it.
Not from anything dramatic.
From the tiny things.
The way she carried the rifle with the muzzle safely oriented.
The way her finger remained nowhere near the trigger.
The way she paused exactly where the firing position began, as if an invisible boundary existed beneath her feet.
Then she looked toward the range officer.
Not toward Jack.
Not toward the spectators.
Toward the range officer.
Waiting.
Daniel’s eyes narrowed.
The range officer, Marcus Hill, seemed momentarily surprised.
Then he lifted his hand.
“Range is clear.”
Emma stepped forward.
The laughter softened.
Only slightly.
Jack folded his arms.
“Try not to break anything.”
A few people snickered.
Emma sat behind the rifle.
And Daniel stopped breathing for half a second.
There.
That movement.
He had seen it before.
Years ago.
A long time ago.
So long ago that he could not immediately remember where.
Emma did not settle behind the rifle the way recreational shooters often did, shifting around until something felt comfortable.
She built the position.
One piece at a time.
Elbow.
Shoulder.
Cheek.
Hand.
Breath.
Everything economical.
Nothing wasted.
The rifle had been set up for Jack Morrison, a man nearly six inches taller than her.
The stock length was wrong.
The cheek height was wrong.
The optic position was wrong.
The rifle should have felt awkward.
Emma did not adjust any of it.
That puzzled Daniel even more.
An experienced shooter would normally correct those things.
Unless…
Daniel stepped closer.
Jack noticed.
“Something wrong, Chief?”
Daniel ignored him.
Emma leaned forward and looked through the scope.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then she lifted her head.
She looked toward the targets.
Five circular white plates stood at the far end of the demonstration lane.
Each plate contained a dark central scoring area.
Simple.
Visible.
Designed for spectators.
Emma returned to the optic.
The crowd had become restless.
Someone shouted, “Any day now!”
Laughter again.
Emma breathed out.
Daniel watched her trigger hand.
His expression hardened.
No.
This girl was not guessing.
She was measuring.
The first shot cracked across the range.
A sharp sound rolled through the desert air.
People immediately looked toward the first target.
White.
Untouched.
A miss.
The laughter exploded.
Jack threw his head back.
“Oh, wow.”
Several spectators clapped sarcastically.
One man near the barrier yelled, “Almost!”
Emma did not react.
Daniel did.
He looked at the target.
Then at Emma.
Then back at the target.
Something was wrong.
Not with her.
With the result.
The rifle barely moved during the shot.
Not merely controlled recoil.
Almost no correction afterward.
Emma had known exactly where that round was going.
Second shot.
Crack.
Second target.
Blank.
The crowd became louder.
Now phones were held high everywhere.
Jack was grinning toward one of the cameras.
“This is painful.”
Third shot.
Another blank target.
Even several competitors were laughing now.
But Daniel wasn’t.
He began walking toward the observation monitor.
Marcus Hill glanced at him.
“Chief?”
Daniel raised one finger.
Quiet.
Fourth shot.
Blank.
A teenager near the front barrier yelled, “Four for four!”
The joke traveled instantly.
People repeated it.
Four for four.
Four perfect misses.
Emma still showed nothing.
No frustration.
No confusion.
No visible disappointment.
That was what disturbed Daniel most.
Every shooter reacted to a bad shot.
A slight tightening of the jaw.
A change in breathing.
A glance at the optic.
A momentary pause.
Something.
Emma behaved as though everything was proceeding exactly as expected.
Daniel reached the electronic observation terminal.
He tapped the screen.
The terminal displayed the camera feed from the targets.
He zoomed in.
Nothing.
White paper.
No obvious impact.
“Interesting,” Daniel whispered.
Then came the fifth shot.
Crack.
The final target remained untouched.
The crowd erupted.
The sound was enormous.
Cheers.
Whistles.
Mock applause.
Jack Morrison bowed theatrically toward Emma.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “precision shooting.”
Emma slowly lifted her head from the rifle.
She did not look embarrassed.
She did not look angry.
Instead, she turned toward Daniel Brooks.
Directly toward him.
Their eyes met across the firing area.
And Daniel felt a cold sensation move through him.
She knows I noticed.
The thought appeared without permission.
Jack walked over.
“That was impressive.”
Emma stood.
He reached toward the rifle.
She handed it back.
“Maybe next time start with something easier,” Jack said.
“Water pistol, maybe.”
More laughter.
Emma finally spoke.
Her voice was quiet.
“Your rifle pulls right.”
Jack’s smile froze for half a second.
Then returned.
“What?”
“Two-point-six centimeters at one hundred.”
The people nearest them went quiet.
Jack stared at her.
Then laughed.
“You missed five entire targets and you’re diagnosing my rifle?”
Emma looked at him.
“No.”
One word.
Nothing more.
Daniel moved closer.
“What do you mean, no?”
Emma turned toward him.
For the first time, there was something in her expression.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As though she had been waiting for him to ask.
“I didn’t miss.”
Silence.
Then someone laughed.
Another joined.
Within seconds the crowd was roaring again.
Jack slapped the preparation table.
“You didn’t miss?”
He looked around in disbelief.
“All five targets are clean!”
Emma’s eyes stayed on Daniel.
Daniel studied her face.
“You’re saying you intentionally avoided the targets?”
Emma said nothing.
Jack scoffed.
“That might be the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
Daniel raised his hand.
The laughter slowly faded.
“Cease activity on demonstration lane.”
Marcus immediately repeated the command.
“Demonstration lane closed!”
Jack’s amusement disappeared.
“Seriously?”
Daniel walked toward Emma.
“What were you aiming at?”
Emma glanced toward the far end of the range.
Daniel followed her eyes.
The targets stood in the heat shimmer.
Five white circles.
Perfectly untouched.
Nothing unusual.
Then Emma said something so quietly Daniel almost didn’t hear.
“Not the targets.”
Daniel stared at her.
“What?”
Jack shook his head.
“Oh, come on.”
But Daniel was no longer listening to Jack.
He turned toward Marcus.
“Bring the targets forward.”
Marcus hesitated.
“All five?”
“All five.”
A murmur spread through the crowd.
This was no longer funny.
Not exactly.
People sensed that something had changed, although nobody knew what.
The targets were mounted on a motorized retrieval system.
Marcus activated it.
Far downrange, the frames began sliding forward.
Jack leaned close to Daniel.
“What exactly are we doing?”
Daniel kept watching.
“I’m not sure.”
“That makes two thousand of us.”
The targets approached.
Thirty meters.
Twenty.
Ten.
Now everyone could see clearly.
Blank.
Completely blank.
Jack spread his hands.
“There.
Mystery solved.”
Daniel ignored him.
Emma stepped closer to the first frame.
She crouched.
And pointed.
Daniel followed her finger.
At first, he saw nothing.
Then sunlight caught something metallic.
A tiny silver mark.
Not on the paper.
On the lower mounting bolt beneath it.
Daniel bent down.
His face changed.
The bolt had a fresh crescent-shaped scar across its edge.
He moved to the second target.
Another bolt.
Another mark.
Third.
Same.
Fourth.
Same.
Fifth.
Same.
The range became unnaturally quiet.
Daniel stood slowly.
Jack’s smile had vanished.
Marcus leaned in.
“What am I looking at?”
Daniel did not answer immediately.
His mind was already calculating.
Five rounds.
Five targets.
Five mounting assemblies.
Each bolt less than a fraction of the size of the visible scoring circle.
And Emma had struck the same position on every one.
Not center mass.
Not the black scoring area.
A tiny exposed piece of hardware beneath the target.
Five times.
Someone in the crowd whispered, “No way.”
Phones moved closer.
A photographer crouched near the frame.
Jack shook his head.
“Those marks could already have been there.”
Daniel looked at Marcus.
“Replacement frames?”
“Installed this morning.”
Jack said nothing.
Daniel examined the fifth bolt.
Fresh metal gleamed beneath the surface coating.
He looked toward Emma.
“You were aiming for the bolts.”
Emma nodded.
A ripple went through the spectators.
Jack laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“That’s impossible.”
Emma turned toward him.
“You said five shots.”
“I meant at the targets.”
“You didn’t say that.”
Several people reacted.
A quiet, uneasy sound.
Not laughter anymore.
Jack stepped closer.
“You expect everyone to believe you hit five mounting bolts with a borrowed rifle you’ve never fired?”
Emma’s expression did not change.
“No.”
Jack blinked.
“No?”
“I expect him to.”
She looked at Daniel.
That silence hit harder than shouting would have.
Daniel stared at her.
Why me?
Before he could ask, Emma walked toward the preparation table.
Jack followed.
“You think you’re clever?”
Emma stopped.
Jack lowered his voice.
“This is my event.
My equipment.
My lane.”
Emma looked at the rifle.
“Then you should probably have someone check the optic mount.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
“There’s nothing wrong with my optic.”
Emma looked directly at him.
“Not yet.”
Daniel heard it.
So did Marcus.
Jack’s expression changed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Emma did not answer.
Instead, she looked down at the rifle.
Daniel suddenly noticed where her attention had settled.
The front scope ring.
He stepped closer.
There was a tiny line near one of the mounting screws.
At first glance, it looked like dirt.
Daniel touched it.
The screw moved.
Barely.
But it moved.
His stomach dropped.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“Don’t shoot this rifle.”
Jack stared at him.
“What?”
Daniel tested the mount again.
“This ring is loose.”
“That’s impossible.
My equipment was inspected.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“By whom?”
Jack hesitated.
“My technician.”
Daniel’s eyes shifted toward the equipment tents.
The mood changed instantly.
What had begun as a joke was becoming something else.
Jack reached for the rifle.
Daniel stopped him.
“No.”
“Daniel, give me my rifle.”
“No one fires it until it’s checked.”
Jack’s face reddened.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Emma stepped away.
Daniel noticed.
“You knew?”
She looked at him.
“Knew what?”
“That the mount was compromised.”
Emma was silent.
“That’s why you didn’t shoot the paper.”
Still silence.
Daniel understood.
If the optic shifted unpredictably, a normal grouping would expose the problem only after several rounds.
But Emma hadn’t trusted the rifle enough to aim at the obvious targets.
Instead, she had used something else.
Something small enough to reveal consistency.
But that made no sense.
If the optic was loose, how had she hit five tiny bolts?
Daniel looked toward the frames again.
Then he realized.
She hadn’t been testing the scope.
She had been testing herself against the scope.
Compensating.
Shot by shot.
Daniel felt a chill despite the brutal heat.
“Emma.”
She waited.
“How did you know the rifle pulled right before firing it?”
Jack snapped his head toward her.
The question seemed to strike him harder than everything else.
Emma’s eyes flickered.
Just once.
That was the first real break in her composure.
Daniel saw it.
And suddenly, a memory surfaced.
A military training range.
Twenty-two years ago.
A windless morning.
A shooter lying behind a rifle.
A man who could watch another person fire once and tell you where the next bullet would land.
A man Daniel had not thought about in years.
A man whose name had disappeared from competition records almost overnight.
Daniel stared at Emma.
No.
It couldn’t be.
He stepped closer.
“What’s your father’s name?”
The crowd became completely silent.
Emma’s face went still.
Jack looked confused.
“What does her father have to do with anything?”
Daniel ignored him.
“Emma.”
She lowered her eyes.
And Daniel knew before she spoke.
“Thomas Carter.”
The name struck Daniel like a physical blow.
Marcus frowned.
Jack looked between them.
“Who’s Thomas Carter?”
Daniel did not answer.
For several seconds, he seemed to forget there were thousands of people watching.
Thomas Carter.
Twenty-two years ago, that name had been spoken with the same mixture of respect and disbelief now spreading through the crowd around Emma.
He had never been famous.
Never had sponsorships.
Never cared about television.
But among serious marksmen, Thomas Carter had been something close to a myth.
He entered seven major precision events.
He won six.
Then, at the eighth, he walked away.
No explanation.
No interviews.
No farewell.
Gone.
Daniel had been there that day.
He remembered the strange argument behind the officials’ tent.
Remembered Thomas refusing to sign a document.
Remembered men in suits arriving.
Remembered Thomas looking at Daniel before leaving and saying only four words.
Watch who owns the score.
Daniel had never understood them.
Until now.
“Your father trained you?”
Daniel asked.
Emma looked toward the ground.
“For a while.”
Jack scoffed.
“A retired competition shooter?”
Daniel turned sharply.
“You have no idea who Thomas Carter was.”
Jack opened his mouth.
Daniel cut him off.
“He was beating national champions before you were old enough to hold a rifle.”
The spectators began murmuring.
Phones were already searching the name.
Thomas Carter.
Old photographs.
Archived results.
Dead webpages.
Forgotten championships.
One image began spreading through the crowd.
A grainy photograph of a young Thomas Carter standing beside Daniel Brooks.
And beside them…
another man.
Jack’s father.
Richard Morrison.
Jack stared at someone’s phone.
His face changed.
“No.”
Daniel saw the image too.
And the past suddenly became much closer.
Thomas Carter.
Richard Morrison.
Daniel Brooks.
Three men standing together after the 2004 Western Precision Invitational.
Daniel remembered that day.
He remembered Richard losing.
He remembered the scoring dispute.
He remembered Thomas refusing the trophy.
Jack looked at Daniel.
“You knew my father?”
Daniel’s voice lowered.
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“It never mattered.”
Emma finally looked up.
“It matters now.”
Daniel turned toward her.
There was no uncertainty in her voice anymore.
No shyness.
No hesitation.
That sentence had been waiting.
Daniel felt something unpleasant settle in his stomach.
“You didn’t come here because Jack challenged you.”
Emma said nothing.
Jack stared at her.
“You planned this?”
Emma looked at him.
“You were convenient.”
That landed badly.
The crowd reacted with a collective murmur.
Jack stepped forward.
“Who do you think you are?”
Emma reached into the pocket of her hoodie.
Security personnel tensed.
Daniel lifted a hand.
Emma slowly removed an old envelope.
Yellowed.
Folded.
Worn at the corners.
She held it out to Daniel.
His name was written across the front.
Not printed.
Handwritten.
Daniel Brooks.
Daniel stared at the handwriting.
He knew it.
His hands suddenly felt cold.
“Where did you get this?”
“My father.”
Daniel looked at Emma.
“Thomas is alive?”
She did not answer.
That silence was worse.
Daniel opened the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
The same tournament.
But not the photograph circulating online.
This one had been taken behind the scoring tent.
Three officials stood around a table.
Richard Morrison was there.
So was the tournament director.
And beside them was a man Daniel immediately recognized.
Victor Hale.
The current chairman of the National Precision Association.
Daniel’s expression hardened.
Something had been written on the back.
He turned it over.
Five words.
DANIEL — CHECK TARGET NUMBER FIVE.
Daniel stopped moving.
“What is it?”
Marcus asked.
Daniel looked toward the retrieved targets.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
He walked quickly toward the final frame.
The fifth mounting bolt carried Emma’s bullet mark.
Daniel examined the target.
Paper.
Cardboard backing.
Metal frame.
Nothing else.
Then he remembered Thomas.
Not the paper.
Never the obvious thing.
Daniel crouched.
He ran his hand beneath the frame.
His fingers touched something.
Tape.
He froze.
Slowly, Daniel peeled a thin strip of black tape from beneath the lower support.
A tiny memory card fell into his palm.
Nobody spoke.
Jack stared.
Emma remained completely still.
Daniel looked at her.
“You put this here?”
“No.”
“When?”
“I didn’t.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed.
“This frame was installed this morning.”
“Yes.”
“So who put it here?”
Emma looked beyond him.
Toward the officials’ platform.
Daniel followed her gaze.
Victor Hale stood there.
Chairman of the association.
Gray hair.
Dark sunglasses.
White championship shirt.
For the first time that afternoon, Victor Hale was not smiling.
Daniel felt the pieces moving into place.
Emma had not come to demonstrate skill.
The five shots had been a signal.
Or a test.
Or both.
The fifth target had been chosen before she ever arrived.
Daniel closed his hand around the memory card.
Victor Hale immediately turned away.
Daniel saw it.
So did Emma.
“Marcus,” Daniel said quietly.
“Yes?”
“Lock down the scoring office.”
Marcus blinked.
“What?”
“Now.”
Jack stared at him.
“Daniel, what’s going on?”
Daniel did not answer.
He watched Victor Hale walking quickly toward the administrative building.
Two association officials followed him.
Emma spoke softly.
“He knows.”
Daniel looked at her.
“Knows what?”
“That you found it.”
Daniel’s pulse accelerated.
Security radios suddenly came alive.
Voices overlapped.
Confused.
Urgent.
Then the main electronic scoreboard flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Every screen around the championship went black.
The crowd gasped.
A moment later, white text appeared across every display.
Not scores.
Not advertisements.
A date.
AUGUST 14, 2004.
Daniel’s face drained of color.
That was the day Thomas Carter had disappeared from competition.
Then another line appeared.
OFFICIAL FINAL SCORE:
RICHARD MORRISON — 597
THOMAS CARTER — 596
Jack looked toward the screen.
“That was my father’s championship.”
Daniel whispered, “Yes.”
A third line appeared.
RAW ELECTRONIC SCORE:
THOMAS CARTER — 600
RICHARD MORRISON — 593
The stadium fell silent.
Jack stopped breathing.
Daniel stared at the numbers.
Impossible.
Unless…
Unless Thomas had been telling the truth.
All those years ago.
The score had been changed.
The fourth line appeared.
AUTHORIZATION OVERRIDE:
V.
HALE.
Thousands of people turned toward the officials’ platform.
Victor Hale was gone.
Jack looked physically ill.
“My father didn’t know.”
Emma said nothing.
Jack turned toward her.
“My father didn’t know.”
Emma met his eyes.
“I didn’t say he did.”
That answer seemed to frighten him more.
Then Daniel felt someone touch his arm.
Marcus.
He was holding his radio.
His face was pale.
“Chief.”
“What?”
“The scoring office is empty.”
Daniel stared at him.
“What do you mean empty?”
“Servers are gone.”
“What?”
“Main archive too.”
Daniel looked toward the administrative building.
A vehicle engine roared somewhere behind the restricted parking area.
Security shouted.
People began moving.
Chaos spread.
Daniel opened his hand.
The memory card remained in his palm.
Tiny.
Black.
Potentially holding twenty-two years of answers.
He looked at Emma.
“You knew this would happen.”
“No.”
“You knew something would happen.”
Emma hesitated.
“Yes.”
Daniel stepped closer.
“Your father sent you here.”
Emma’s eyes changed.
For the first time, genuine emotion appeared.
Pain.
Anger.
And something else.
Fear.
“No.”
Daniel waited.
Emma swallowed.
“My father disappeared eleven months ago.”
The words landed quietly.
But Daniel felt them everywhere.
Jack stopped moving.
Marcus lowered his radio.
Daniel stared at her.
“Disappeared?”
Emma nodded.
“He left home one night.
No phone.
No message.”
“And the envelope?”
“It arrived three weeks ago.”
“From where?”
“No return address.”
Daniel looked at the old handwriting again.
“Why come here?”
Emma looked toward the fifth target.
“Because the letter told me to.”
Daniel’s voice fell.
“What exactly did it say?”
Emma reached into her hoodie again.
This time she removed a small folded note.
She handed it to him.
Daniel opened it.
Only one sentence was written there.
IF DANIEL BROOKS STILL REMEMBERS HOW TO WATCH, FIRE FIVE SHOTS AND MISS THEM ALL.
Daniel read it twice.
Then a third time.
A chill moved through him.
Those words had been written before Emma arrived.
Before Jack challenged her.
Before Jack offered his rifle.
Before five targets were placed on the demonstration lane.
Daniel looked up slowly.
“How could your father know Jack would hand you his rifle?”
Emma’s face tightened.
“He couldn’t.”
Daniel looked toward Jack.
Jack looked confused.
Then offended.
“You think I’m involved?”
“No,” Daniel said.
But something else had occurred to him.
He turned toward Marcus.
“Who assigned the demonstration lanes this morning?”
Marcus thought.
“Administration.”
“Who ordered those frames replaced?”
Marcus hesitated.
“I’d have to check.”
Daniel already knew.
Victor Hale.
The entire moment had been arranged.
Not Emma’s decision.
Not Jack’s challenge.
Not even the laughter.
Someone had created the conditions.
Placed Emma where Jack would notice her.
Placed five new frames on that lane.
Placed the memory card beneath the fifth.
And somehow trusted Emma to do exactly what the note instructed.
Five shots.
Five apparent misses.
Daniel looked at the crowd.
Thousands of phones were recording.
The evidence on the screens had already been captured.
Whatever Victor Hale wanted hidden was now impossible to erase completely.
Then the scoreboard changed again.
The old scores vanished.
A new message appeared.
DANIEL.
Just his name.
Daniel stared.
Then another line appeared.
YOU WERE ALWAYS SUPPOSED TO FIND THE CARD.
Emma stepped beside him.
Jack looked from the screen to Daniel.
Nobody laughed now.
A final line began typing across the scoreboard.
Slowly.
One letter at a time.
BUT EMMA WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE HERE.
Emma went pale.
Daniel turned toward her.
“What does that mean?”
She didn’t answer.
Because she was no longer looking at the scoreboard.
She was looking past it.
Toward the highest ridge beyond the championship grounds.
A distant figure stood against the Arizona sky.
Too far away to identify.
Motionless.
Watching.
Emma whispered one word.
“Dad?”
Daniel spun toward the ridge.
The figure remained there for only a second.
Then disappeared behind the rocks.
At the same moment, Daniel’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
Every instinct told him not to answer.
He answered anyway.
“Daniel Brooks.”
Silence.
Static.
Then a man breathed on the other end.
Daniel’s face changed.
He knew that breathing.
Twenty-two years vanished.
“Thomas?”
Emma grabbed his arm.
Daniel put the call on speaker.
A weak voice came through.
Older.
Rougher.
But unmistakable.
“Daniel…”
Emma’s eyes filled.
“Dad?”
The voice stopped.
Then returned.
More urgent now.
“You need to listen carefully.”
Daniel looked toward the ridge.
“Where are you?”
“No time.”
Emma leaned toward the phone.
“Dad, where have you been?”
A sound came through the call.
Metal.
A door.
Someone moving.
Thomas whispered.
“The card isn’t evidence.”
Daniel’s grip tightened.
“What?”
“The card is a key.”
“To what?”
Silence.
Then Thomas said the words that made Daniel slowly turn toward Jack Morrison.
“To the reason Jack’s father really died.”
Jack went white.
“My father died in a car accident.”
Thomas heard him.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then his voice came through the phone.
“No, Jack.”
A pause.
“He didn’t.”
The call ended.
And somewhere beneath the administrative building, an alarm began to scream.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Nhan Nhan
