Staff Sergeant Dwayne Puckett had been running the Camp Lejeune qualification range for three years, and he liked everyone to know it.
“Ma’am, you need to step away from that weapon. Now.”
The woman didn’t flinch. She was maybe sixty-five, silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, wearing a faded olive field jacket that looked older than half the Marines on the line. She had her hand resting on the Barrett M107 like it was a kitchen counter.
“I said step back,” Dwayne barked, loud enough for the whole bay to hear. “This isn’t a petting zoo. That rifle costs more than your house.”
A few of the privates snickered. Dwayne loved an audience.