Pride flaring, Cole shoved him. The old man stumbled backward onto the mat but recovered his footing instantly, fluidly. A few soldiers laughed at the older man's stumble.
Sergeant Luis Vega, hearing the disturbance, quickly crossed the room. But before he could intervene, Cole raised a fist.
“You are too old to stand in my training hall,” Cole sneered.
“Your training hall?”
A few soldiers laughed again, but this time, the laughter belonged to the old man’s calm defiance. Cole, blinded by ego, mistook it for encouragement.
“One punch,” Cole challenged. “That is all it would take.”
Sergeant Vega stepped up to the mat, regretting the situation but seeing an opportunity to humble his most arrogant recruit. “One controlled exchange,” Vega ordered, glaring at Cole. “No full-power strikes. No attacks to the head. The moment I order you to stop, it ends.”
Cole nodded. The old man said nothing. He simply waited.
The first punch missed by less than an inch.
Cole felt the air move around his glove as the old man’s silver head slipped calmly to one side. There had been no frantic ducking, no clumsy stumble, and no fearful recoil. Just one small movement.
Effortless. Precise.
Cole pulled his fist back and stared. Around the combat mat, nearly forty soldiers had gone completely silent. A minute earlier, they had been laughing. Now, the tension in the room was palpable.
The elderly stranger stood in front of Cole, hands relaxed near his chest. He was narrow through the shoulders and almost eighty pounds lighter than the young private. He should have looked helpless. Instead, he looked immensely patient. That disturbed Cole more than fear ever could.
“You missed,” the old man said simply.
Cole’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“Then why did you throw it?”
Soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Cole’s face burned as they waited to see what he would do next. The old stranger had made the strongest man in the gym miss with a millimeter to spare.
Cole stepped forward again. This time, there was no testing jab. He drove a hard, fast right hand aimed directly at the man’s ribs.
The old man merely shifted his rear foot. Cole’s glove passed violently through empty space. A fraction of a second later, two fingers touched the exposed, unprotected side beneath Cole's raised arm. It wasn't hard enough to hurt—only enough to mark the fatal opening.
“That would have stopped your breathing,” the stranger said.
Enraged, Cole slapped the hand away.
“Do it properly,” the old man commanded softly.
Sergeant Vega moved closer, his voice sharp. “Barrett, control yourself.”