CHAPTER 14 — "RITUAL OF WAR"
"Firing a weapon isn't about hatred or revenge. It's about control. About remembering that, in the end, your mind is your best aim. And your weapon, just an extension of what you already know."
— Dylan Travers, footnote in technical journal, 2014
Langley, Virginia — July 23, 2014 | 7:08 AM | CIA HQ — Internal Training Section | Tactical Shooting Range, Basement 3
Morning hadn't yet arrived for many. On the basement level 3 of CIA headquarters, the tactical shooting range maintained its constant lighting: clinical-white LED tubes, exposed concrete, the smell of gunpowder permeating the air, and a muffled symphony of clicks, jolts, and metallic snaps that only someone trained would know how to appreciate.
Dylan Travers was there, like a man in a silent ritual.
He wore black cargo pants, a tight gray shirt, and tactical boots. His beard was grown, and his eyes... calm, but firm, as always before a shot. Beside him, a black briefcase. On the other, the Section 12 locker, where the range's internal weapons rested.
He had already left his cell phone in the isolated compartment no interference, no notifications. Just him, metal, precision, and the sound of his own breathing.
7:12 AM | Weaponry
Dylan unlocked the briefcase and took out his Glock 19 Gen 4, a model with a modified grip and customized trigger job, reliable, familiar, part of his daily routine. He checked the slide, tested the mechanism, pulled the slide smoothly. No problem.
But that was just the beginning.
He walked to the armory attendant, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, tired eyes, and a military posture. His name tag read: Barnes.
Barnes recognized him immediately. "Travers. You disappeared."
"Too much sand in my shoe, Barnes. I needed a little gunpowder to cleanse my soul."
"Want your usual?"
Dylan smiled sideways.
"I want it."
Barnes already knew.
He turned and went to the back compartment. He returned carrying a long, black box with reinforced metal latches. Carefully, he placed it on the counter.
Dylan opened the box. The smell hit him first, gun oil, warm metal, memory.
There it was: an HK416 D14.5RS, telescopic stock, quad RIS rail, EOTech Holographic sight, and SureFire silencer ready to screw on. The gun still bore the mark he had engraved in 2009: a tiny eagle with a trident inside its wing an unofficial symbol of the Red Squadron.
"It still sings beautifully," Barnes said. "I lubricated it this week."
Dylan ran his fingers along the barrel, the grip, the stock. Like someone reuniting with an old war buddy.
"This weapon has saved my life more times than I can count."
Barnes observed.
"You operated with it in Afghanistan, right?"
Dylan nodded.
"And also in Abbottabad, Somalia, Bosnia, Sudan, Marawi… When you hold something like this for so long, it stops being a tool. It becomes an extension."
Barnes opened a cabinet and handed over three Magpul magazines, .556 NATO, M855A1 standard, green tip.
"Want dynamic targets?"
"Moving targets. Multilayered. And a night cycle."
"You like to suffer."
Dylan took everything and replied dryly:
"It's not suffering. It's maintenance."
07:28h | Station 4B — Dynamic Combat Room
The room was large, dark, and full of obstacles: wooden panels simulating walls, furniture, doors, and narrow corridors. The lighting system allowed for the simulation of night light, strobe lights, or a combination of both. Targets moved along remotely controlled tracks.
Dylan positioned the HK416 on the workbench. He put on his ear protectors, black fingerless gloves, and activated the "active hostiles" mode on the panel on the side of the room.
The countdown began.
10 seconds.
9... 8... 7...
He cocked the HK with automatic precision. A slight click.
The first magazine in place.
Sight adjusted.
Lights off.
Silence.
3... 2... 1... START SIMULATION.
Red lights exploded. The first target appeared ahead, a hostile torso with a simulated weapon. Dylan fired two shots into the chest, one into the head. Quick movement to the left fired at the hip, then at the center of mass.
Another target appeared behind a door.
Dylan turned, ducked, fired. Prrft! Prrft!
Thirteen seconds later, ten targets down.
No false shots. None out of the ordinary.
Certain breathing. Calm eyes.
He changed the magazine and reset the simulation.
Again.
And again.
For two hours.
09:39h | Interlude — Support bench, decompression area
Dylan sat down, taking off his gloves, breathing deeply. The gun rested beside him, like a faithful dog.
He picked up the water bottle. He drank slowly.
A voice sounded behind him:
— "You still shoot like you're 30 years old."
He turned around. It was Mike Daugherty, Ground Branch operator, an old friend, with a gray beard and a watchful gaze. He was wearing a gray training uniform.
— "You still talk like a 60-year-old," Dylan replied, offering the bottle.
Mike accepted and drank.
— "I was watching you at the mirror in sector 4C. I have to say you're more accurate than in Somalia."
— "In Somalia I had malaria."
— "And you still hit two insurgents with one arm."
Dylan smiled briefly.
— "The HK helps."
Mike looked at the gun.
— "Still your favorite?"
— "Always has been. It's balanced. Manageable recoil. And it responds. Unlike people we've dealt with."
They both laughed. For a second, the weight of their profession gave way to memories and camaraderie.
Mike stood up.
— "Going home today?"
— "Later. Amanda gets back from a meeting with the JSOC people at 5 p.m."
— "Take her out to dinner. You look less dead with her around."
— "I think it's the wine."
— "I think it's her."
Dylan didn't answer. But Mike knew the silence was a confirmation.
10:15 AM | Last round
Dylan returned to the shooting range. Just him and the gun.
Static target at 75 meters.
He crouched down. Adjusted the holographic sight. Breathed.
Boom.
Boom.
Three shots. One hole in the target.
Perfection.
He lowered the gun.
And said, almost like a prayer:
— "We're still together."
Weapon cleaning room — 10:47 AM
Dylan carefully disassembled the HK. Each part cleaned with a fine brush, lubricated, checked. A ceremonial gesture. He did it like someone repairing an old watch — not out of obligation, but out of respect.
Barnes appeared in the doorway.
— "Everything alright?"
— "She still sings," Dylan said, without taking his eyes off the barrel.
— "And you?"
Dylan put the gun back in its case.
— "I still hear."
Headquarters Parking Lot — 11:12 AM
Leaving the building, Dylan walked to his black SUV. The sky was clear. Birds flew overhead. Ordinary people walked the streets outside.
He opened the door, got in, and started the engine. The sound of the engine blended with the interior silence.
He picked up his phone.
He texted Amanda:
"I was at the range today. HK still remembers me. I hope you do too."
Seconds later, the reply:
"She has a good memory. But not better than mine. See you at 6 PM. Bring wine."
Dylan smiled. He put the phone back in its holder.
War would always be lurking.
But, for now, he had something that resembled peace.
[email protected]/SHADOWGHOST07
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