Mason smiled, but only halfway. He was twenty-one, from Amarillo, Texas, lean and sharp-faced, and just old enough to have mistaken confidence for maturity. He had always been able to shoot. Not in the casual hunting sense. In the way coaches noticed early, instructors praised often, and other men started building stories around before he had earned the right to believe them.
At nineteen, he had been the kid who could ring steel before older Marines had settled into position.
At twenty, he had become the guy NCOs called when they wanted a difficult shot on the range demonstrated cleanly.
At twenty-one, he had started thinking that talent made him different.
That was the version of him that had arrived at Twentynine Palms.
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