It was a dangerous mixture of pride, trauma, skill, and restless power. Under the wrong circumstances, it could spill over quickly.
Marcus continued pressing.
He noticed the faded outline of a Combat Infantryman Badge above one pocket of Richard’s jacket. He also noticed the way Richard carried himself, a stillness different from the ordinary slowness of an elderly man.
There was economy in Richard’s movement, a deliberate conservation of energy. Part of Marcus may have been sincerely curious, but whiskey and ego strengthened his desire to expose what he believed was a fraud.
“Look,” Marcus said, his patience disappearing. He jabbed one finger toward the patch again. “I know men who died for the symbols they wore.”
Richard remained silent.
“Better men than you or me,” Marcus continued. “So when I see an old man sitting in a bar with a piece of military decoration he cannot identify, it makes me angry.”
Marcus leaned toward him.
“One final time. What unit?”
The remaining operators rose from the booth. They formed a loose and intimidating semicircle around Richard’s stool.
Other customers began noticing the confrontation. Conversations faltered while people shifted inside their seats and pretended not to watch. Every eye in the room was now directed toward the bar.
Richard looked from Marcus’s hardened expression to those of his teammates.
He saw confidence and judgment. Most of all, he saw their youth.
They were lions, strong and proud, while Richard appeared to be an old man standing in their path.
He released a long, slow breath.
“It does not matter anymore.”
Marcus scoffed.
“That is what they all say.”
He pointed toward the frayed patch.