Everything appeared valid. The registration matched the plate. The insurance was up to date. No issues. Yet something in the air continued to feel incredibly unusual.
While Jenkins scrutinized the paperwork, trying to find a reason to write a citation, Davies took a step closer to the front of the motorcycle. He studied James carefully. There was something intensely familiar about him. It wasn't his face—Davies was sure he had never seen the man before. It was his posture. The way he stood. Straight-backed. Shoulders squared. Chin parallel to the ground. Alert, completely aware of his surroundings, scanning the perimeter without seeming to move his head. Even at eighty-two, he stood like a man ready for action. It was as if years of intense, specialized training still lingered beneath every subtle movement of his muscles.
Davies’s eyes drifted from the man to the motorcycle, landing finally on the fuel tank. He noticed the small, weathered insignia. He leaned in slightly, squinting against the glare. The emblem was a shield, topped with an eagle, with a sword cutting through the center, surrounded by stars. It was not a unit patch Davies recognized, and he considered himself a bit of a military history buff.
"You served?" the older officer finally asked, his voice softening, breaking the tense silence Jenkins had established.
James shifted his gaze to Davies. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly behind his sunglasses. He smiled faintly, a ghost of a smile that carried a thousand unspoken memories.
"A long time ago, officer," James replied quietly. "In a different lifetime."
"Which branch?" Davies pressed respectfully.
"Army," James said simply. He offered no further details. No unit name. No theater of operation. Just the branch.
Before the conversation could continue, before Jenkins could return with her citation book, a distant sound interrupted them.
Chapter 4: The Approaching Thunder
At first, it was barely noticeable. It was a low, subsonic rumble, a vibration that seemed to travel through the earth before it reached the air. It sounded like distant thunder, the kind that rolls over the plains preceding a massive summer supercell. But the sky was completely clear, a brilliant, unbroken dome of blue.
Somewhere beyond the rolling hills to the east, something immense was moving.
Jenkins, focused entirely on the details of the registration card, ignored it. She was busy running James Harris’s information through the portable radio on her shoulder. "Dispatch, this is Unit 4. Can you run a Kansas DL..."
Davies, however, was immediately distracted. He glanced toward the eastern horizon, narrowing his eyes.
The sound grew louder. It shifted from a low vibration to a distinct, mechanical roar. It was not the sound of civilian semi-trucks. It was deeper, heavier. And it was multiplying.
Louder.
Within seconds, both officers turned their heads. Even Jenkins lowered the radio, a frown creasing her forehead.
Over the crest of the hill, approximately a mile down the highway, several vehicles appeared. They were approaching fast. Very fast. They were taking up both lanes of the two-lane highway, moving in a staggered, tactical formation that civilian vehicles simply did not use.
Dust rose behind them in massive, billowing clouds, painting the sky behind the vehicles a dirty, aggressive brown. A lot of dust. Too much dust for standard traffic.
Jenkins narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to her cruiser. "What in the world is that?" she muttered, her previous irritation replaced by a sudden, creeping sense of apprehension.