Calculating.
The train began to slow.
The PA system came alive, announcing the upcoming station.
Almost there.
Kyle leaned in, lowering his voice just enough so only Richard could hear.
“What’s the matter, soldier boy? Ain’t got any fight left in you?”
His breath smelled like cheap gum and arrogance.
Richard did not blink.
He did not react.
Instead, he observed.
Counted.
Five of them.
Kyle, the leader.
Two behind him.
One by the doors.
One still playing with his hat.
Richard blinked slowly.
He had been in worse situations.
The train hissed to a stop.
The doors slid open.
Richard straightened his coat, adjusting it carefully.
Then, without a word, without so much as a glance at Kyle, he stepped forward.
Through the doors, his cane clicked against the platform as he walked.
Kyle watched him leave, his smirk returning.
He nodded at his friends.
“Let’s go have some more fun.”
The group followed him.
The game was not over.
Not yet.
The metro station was dark, the fluorescent lights flashing overhead. The air smelled of wet concrete and something metallic, maybe from the old tracks, maybe from something more sinister.
Colonel Richard Dawson emerged.
His pace was slow and measured, but there was no uncertainty in it. His cane struck the tiled floor with a rhythmic click, click, click.
He could sense it.
They were following him.
The young men stalked him like shadows, spreading out, pretending they were only messing around.
Kyle strutted at the center, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his smirk never fully leaving. His buddies fanned out behind him.