From the bleachers, I
heard a chair scrape against the floor.
The elderly veteran had stood up.
He watched my stance with an expression I recognized immediately.
It wasn’t admiration.
It was recognition.
He took a hesitant step forward and leaned toward the woman sitting beside him.
He whispered something.
I couldn’t make out the beginning, but I heard the final three words.
“Close-quarters combat specialist.”
The woman looked confused.
The veteran covered his mouth.
“My God,” he whispered. “That man was one of ours.”
Blake hadn’t heard him.
He was too occupied trying
to convince himself that the previous thirty seconds hadn’t happened.
“Enough games,” he snapped.
He rushed forward.
I recognized what he was preparing before he fully committed to the movement.
His right shoulder dipped.
His left foot shifted.
His weight settled.
He was preparing another spinning kick.
The same technique he’d used against my son.
