Chapter 12

The ICTF Euravian training facility had an outdoor shooting range. December's cold wind sliced across the open field like a blade. Iris stood in her shooting lane. Her right hand was still wrapped in medical bandages, while her left held a standard Glock 19. Iris raised her arm, locked the sights into alignment, and pulled the trigger. The bullet missed, grazing the edge of the target paper about 50 yards away without touching the scoring rings. A few muffled snickers rose behind her. Several trainees from the same intake exchanged looks. There was a hint of sympathy in their eyes, but mostly a silent verdict that she couldn't make it. Iris' expression remained blank as she ejected the magazine and chambered another round. Even though the torn tendon in her right hand had healed, its fine motor control was permanently impaired. Her attending physician's words echoed in her mind. "The fact that you survived that ordeal is already a miracle, Ms. Whitman. Leave the front line. You ca