methodically began to remove his heavy leather
riding gloves, placing them neatly on the tank.
"Is there a problem, Officer?" James asked, his
voice low and steady, possessing a quiet dignity that
seemed to instantly irritate Boyd.
"You heard me," Boyd snapped. "Off the bike."
James looked toward the cruiser, making brief
eye contact with Sergeant Ruiz, before turning back
to Boyd. He swung his right leg over the saddle,
placing both feet firmly on the pavement.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Boyd
ordered, his hand resting conspicuously on his duty
belt, near his sidearm.
James stepped away from the motorcycle. His
movements were deliberate and careful, not out of
fear, but out of necessity. Age had stiffened his
joints, and a long, jagged scar beneath his jeans—a
souvenir from a time he rarely discussed—pulled
painfully whenever he shifted his weight too quickly
onto his left knee. He moved with a pronounced
limp.
Boyd noticed the limp and smirked, a cruel
expression crossing his young face. "Long night, old
man?"
"Long life," James replied simply, turning to
face the officer.
Boyd held out a gloved hand. "Let's have it.
License."
James nodded slowly. He reached his right
hand toward the inner breast pocket of his weathered
leather vest.
Instantly, Boyd stepped back, unclipping the
retention strap on his holster. "Stop! Keep your
hands out of your pockets!"
James froze immediately, his hand hovering
inches from the leather lapel. He didn't raise his
hands in panic; he simply stopped moving, his eyes
locking onto Boyd's mirrored lenses.
"My wallet is in this pocket, Officer," James
explained, his voice remaining perfectly calm,
devoid of the nervous energy Boyd was accustomed
to inducing in civilians.
"Use two fingers. Pull it out slow," Boyd
commanded, his posture tense.
James did exactly as instructed. He pinched the
worn brown leather wallet between his index and
middle fingers, slowly extracting it from his vest and
handing it over to the young patrolman.
Boyd snatched the wallet, flipping it open and
sliding the driver's license out from the plastic
sleeve. He looked at the card, then up at James, then
back at the card.
"James Franklin Harris," Boyd read aloud.
"Yes," James confirmed.
"Eighty-two?" Boyd asked, a hint of
skepticism in his voice.
"That is what the card says," James replied
mildly.
Boyd looked past James, his eyes wandering
over the faded olive-drab paint, the exposed engine
block, and the scarred saddlebags of the motorcycle.
"Registration," Boyd demanded.
"It is in the left saddlebag," James said,
gesturing slightly toward the rear of the bike.
"Open it."
James turned slowly, feeling the stiffness in his
knee flare up again.
"Slowly," Boyd warned, stepping closer,
positioning himself just behind James's shoulder.
The old man reached down, his scarred,
weathered fingers working the stiff leather buckle of
the saddlebag. It unclasped with a soft pop. He
reached inside and produced a clear plastic envelope
containing his registration card, his proof of
insurance, and a small stack of neatly folded
maintenance receipts. He handed the envelope to
Boyd.
Boyd pulled the papers out, scrutinizing them
as if searching for a hidden code. He checked the
dates. He checked the VIN number against the metal
plate on the frame. Everything was perfectly current,
perfectly legal.
Boyd appeared visibly disappointed. He
handed the papers back.
"Where are you going?" Boyd asked, shifting
his weight.
"To Fort Kendrick," James answered.
By the cruiser, Sergeant Ruiz looked up
sharply at the mention of the military installation.
Chapter 3
The Missing Pieces
Fort Kendrick stood just twenty miles west,
nestled behind the low, rolling hills that broke the
horizon. The massive military installation was the
beating heart of the Army’s 14th Sustainment
Command and housed one of the largest military
transportation schools in the country. It was a
sprawling complex of barracks, motor pools, and
administrative buildings, humming with constant,
disciplined activity.
Boyd looked from James to the faded
motorcycle, and then at the old man's plain leather
vest. His eyes searched for the usual markers of
military affiliation—unit patches, American flag
decals, veteran rockers, or combat action ribbons.
There were none. Just the worn leather and the
solitary brass compass pin.
"What business do you have at the base?"
Boyd asked, his tone dripping with profound
skepticism.
"I was invited," James replied, his voice even.
"To do what?"
"To attend a ceremony."
Boyd let out another short, mocking laugh. He
glanced at the ancient, vibrating machine. "They
know you're coming on that?"
James followed Boyd's gaze to the motorcycle.
"They should."
A massive eighteen-wheeler thundered past
them in the opposite lane, the sheer force of its