perfectly still, his eyes locked onto Prescott’s
face. He had spent decades assessing threats,
calculating risks, and de-escalating conflicts in
war zones. He recognized the dangerous,
volatile energy practically vibrating off the
police officer—a man desperately seeking a
reason, any reason, to exert his authority
through violence.
"Officer," Adrian said softly, his voice
carrying the immovable weight of a mountain.
"My brother, James Bennett, served this
country with distinction. He died of cancer
three days ago. His casket is inside that chapel.
I am going to walk past you, and I am going to
say goodbye to him."
Adrian took a single, deliberate step
forward.
That was all the justification Prescott
needed. "Resisting!" Prescott shouted, reaching
out and grabbing the lapels of Adrian’s suit.
With a sudden, explosive surge of brute force,
the officer spun the older man around.
Despite his age, Adrian was physically
formidable, maintaining a rigorous military
fitness regimen. He could have easily broken
the officer’s grip, dismantled his balance, and
laid him flat on the concrete in three seconds.
His muscle memory, drilled into him through
years of hand-to-hand combat training,
screamed at him to react. But his tactical mind
overrode his physical instincts. Striking a
police officer in the middle of a Southern
suburban street would end in tragedy. It
would end in gunfire. He forced his body to go
entirely limp, offering zero resistance.
Prescott drove his forearm into the back
of Adrian’s neck, slamming the General face-
first into the scorching concrete. The impact
knocked the wind out of Adrian’s lungs and
scraped the skin from his right cheek. The
photograph of James, tucked in his breast
pocket, crumpled against his chest.
"Stop resisting! Stop resisting!" Prescott
bellowed for the benefit of any watching
neighbors, though Adrian hadn’t moved a
muscle.
The heavy weight of the officer’s knee
drove ruthlessly into the center of Adrian’s
spine, pinning him to the pavement. The cold,
unyielding steel of handcuffs snapped tightly
around his wrists, biting deeply into the skin
as Prescott ratcheted them as tight as they
would go.
"You think a cheap suit and a sob story
fools me?" Prescott hissed into Adrian’s ear,
yanking the cuffed arms upward at a painful,
unnatural angle. "Every week another one of
you crawls into this neighborhood looking for
something to steal. Sick of it. You’re under
arrest."
Adrian turned his head slightly, his
cheek pressing against the hot, rough texture
of the sidewalk. Through the haze of pain and
humiliation, his eyes found the wooden cross
mounted above the doors of Grace Chapel just
down the street. Faintly, filtering through the
humid air and the hum of the police cruiser’s
engine, he could hear the muffled, soulful
chords of the church organ beginning to play
'Amazing Grace.' The service had started. He
was missing it.
Officer Holt finally stepped forward, his
face pale and slick with nervous sweat. "Sarge,
maybe we should just pat him down and run
his name. He didn't really do anything—"
"Shut up, Holt!" Prescott barked, hauling
Adrian to his feet by the chain of the
handcuffs. Adrian stumbled slightly but
quickly regained his balance, drawing himself
up to his full, imposing height. Even in
restraints, with blood trickling down his jaw,
he radiated an aura of absolute command that
made Holt instinctively take a step backward.
"Get him in the back of the car," Prescott
ordered, shoving Adrian toward the rear door
of the cruiser.
As Holt placed his hand on Adrian’s head
to guide him into the back seat, he briefly met
the older man’s eyes. There was no fear in
Adrian’s gaze. There was no panic. There was
only a cold, terrifying promise of absolute
reckoning. Holt swallowed hard, slamming the
door shut.
The cruiser pulled away from the curb,
leaving the faint sound of hymns fading into