out of reach.
Blake’s breathing began to change.
He couldn’t understand why his punches kept missing a man who barely appeared to be moving.
“Fight back!” he shouted.
I looked straight at him.
“You’re not giving me a reason to.”
His face reddened.
He threw another hook.
This time, I caught his wrist, redirected his forward momentum, and released him.
He turned halfway around before regaining his balance.
A murmur spread through the spectators.
Blake stared at me.
The confidence was beginning to leave his face.
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
