“An old patch?” Marcus repeated. The playful edge disappeared from his voice. “What unit?”
“It was a long time ago.”
Richard turned back toward his drink, hoping the conversation would die.
He had not entered the bar looking for recognition or confrontation. He never came there for either. Richard wanted only familiar silence, the scent of stale beer and old wood, and the comfort of being anonymous.
Marcus and his team did not understand anonymity in the same way. They were trained to locate weaknesses, test reactions, and continue applying pressure until something revealed itself. Richard’s unwillingness to answer looked suspicious to them.
One of the other operators left the booth and approached the bar. Derek was broad-shouldered and slightly taller than Marcus.
“He does not want to discuss it,” Derek said, although the grin on his face showed he was enjoying the exchange. “Maybe it is classified.”
The sarcasm was obvious.
“Is that it, old man?” Marcus leaned closer. “Were you a member of some highly classified secret club?”
He lowered his voice.
“Tell us a war story. We are all friends here.”
The bartender, Sarah Bennett, watched from farther down the counter. She had owned the establishment for twenty years and knew Richard as one of her most dependable regulars.
For nearly a decade, he entered three nights each week at almost the same time. He occupied the same stool, ordered the same whiskey, and never caused trouble.
Sarah knew Richard had served in the military, but he never discussed the details. She also recognized the tightly coiled energy surrounding the younger men. She had observed it many times in soldiers visiting from the nearby base.