Jenkins pulled back sharply, shaking off Davies's hand and stepping back into her role as the strict enforcer of the highway code. "We are not here to discuss your memories, Mr. Harris. This is a traffic stop, not a philosophy seminar. You were drifting into oncoming lanes, which constitutes reckless endangerment, and frankly, at your age, I'm questioning whether you're medically fit to be operating a heavy motor vehicle on a public highway." The words hung in the air, sharp and accusatory, cutting through the warm afternoon breeze. Davies winced internally, knowing Jenkins had crossed a line, but before Davies could interject or soften the blow, James Harris simply blinked. There was no flash of anger in his eyes, no defensive outburst, and no sudden spike in blood pressure. Instead, there was a profound, chilling stillness, the kind of quiet composure found only in men who had stood in the crosshairs of artillery fire and watched the world burn around them. James slowly turned his head to face Jenkins directly, his gaze locking onto hers with such heavy, unyielding intensity that the young officer actually took an involuntary half-step backward, her hand dropping away from her belt. "Officer," James said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its conversational warmth and replacing it with a tone of absolute command that had once made junior officers twice her size stand at rigid attention. "I have driven vehicles through minefields, across burning bridges, and over terrain that would turn your patrol car into scrap metal within thirty seconds. I am quite capable of handling a two-lane highway on a sunny afternoon."
Jenkins swallowed hard, fighting against a sudden, inexplicable wave of intimidation that made her feel remarkably small in front of an octogenarian in a faded riding jacket. Recovering her voice with a defensive surge of pride, she snapped back, "Your past military service, or whatever you're implying, doesn't exempt you from traffic laws, Mr. Harris! I have a mind to run your plates, check your registration status, and write you a citation for reckless operation and impeding the flow of traffic just to ensure you understand that the rules apply to everyone equally!" Davies stepped in firmly between them, placing himself squarely in Jenkins's line of sight. "Enough, Sarah. Step back. I'll handle the rest of this stop." Davies turned his attention back to James, noting the worn leather cardholder still open in his hand and catching a glimpse of a secondary card tucked behind the license—a heavy, metallic ID card bearing a federal seal and a classification that made Davies's breath catch in his throat. Davies had only seen a card like that once before, thirty years ago during a joint operation with federal marshals—an identification issued to retired high-ranking civilian contractors and intelligence operatives who had operated in black-site theaters during the Cold War and beyond. Davies's demeanor shifted instantly from routine highway patrol indifference to absolute, respectful caution. He handed the license and cardholder back to James with a slow, deliberate movement, offering a slight nod of his head. "Mr. Harris, I apologize for the interruption to your journey. You're free to go. Just keep an eye on the crosswinds and stay inside the white line."