"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"It holds."
She shook her head.
"Sir, this motorcycle is a death trap."
Foster stepped closer.
"Kimberly."
"What?"
"Maybe we should just check his documents and—"
"What if he has a medical emergency?" Hayes interrupted. "What if he loses control? What if he kills somebody?"
Robert's jaw tightened.
He had heard people use fear as a weapon before.
He had heard it from men with rifles.
From politicians.
From commanders.
From enemies.
This was different.
This was ignorance wearing a badge.
Hayes pulled out her citation book.
"Unsafe vehicle. Failure to maintain equipment. And possibly reckless endangerment."
Robert looked at her.
"You're going to cite me for riding a motorcycle that you think is old?"
"I'm going to cite you because I think you're a danger."
She leaned closer.
"Maybe it's time to accept that you're not young anymore."
Then she said the words that made Foster's expression change.
"Maybe you should think about moving somewhere people can take care of you."
Robert stared at her for several seconds.
Then he quietly said:
"People have been trying to take care of me for a very long time."
Hayes didn't understand.
She would.
Soon.
The Soldier at the Gas Station
Corporal Ryan Blake had been driving home when he saw the patrol car.
He was twenty-eight, an Army Ranger stationed at Fort Harrison, and he had learned one important lesson during his years in uniform:
Pay attention to what everyone else misses.
He pulled into the gas station across the highway.
At first, he didn't intend to interfere.
Then the old man's jacket shifted in the wind.
Ryan saw the patch.
His stomach tightened.
A faded green insignia.
Special Forces.
But that wasn't what stopped him.
The patch carried additional markings.
Subtle ones.
Marks that meant something to someone who knew how to read them.
Ryan stepped out of his truck.
He stared.
Then he whispered:
"No way."
He had seen photographs of those markings.
Not many.
Usually in old unit histories or classified training material.
The old man wasn't simply wearing a Green Beret patch.
He was wearing the insignia of someone who had earned the right to carry it differently.
Ryan crossed the road.
Hayes noticed him.
"Can we help you?"
Ryan ignored the question.
He looked at Robert.
"Sir."
Robert turned.
Ryan's eyes dropped to the patch again.
"Are you Colonel Sullivan?"
The highway seemed to go silent.
Robert studied him.
"Who wants to know?"
Ryan straightened instinctively.
"Corporal Ryan Blake, United States Army."
Robert's eyes narrowed.
"Ranger?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you should know better than to salute a man standing beside a motorcycle."
Ryan smiled.
"Yes, sir."
He saluted anyway.
Robert slowly returned it.
Hayes stared between them.
"You know this man?"
Ryan lowered his hand.
"Not personally."
"Then why are you interfering?"
Ryan looked at her.
"Because I know who he is."
Robert shook his head.
"Ryan."
The corporal turned.
"Sir?"
"Don't."
"But, Colonel—"
"Don't."
Ryan hesitated.
Then he looked at Hayes.
"You might want to check the name before you write that ticket."
Hayes frowned.
"Why?"
Ryan's answer was quiet.
"Because Colonel Robert Sullivan isn't just some eighty-two-year-old man riding an old motorcycle."