Trent let out a frustrated growl, his jaw working in rage at the old man's utter refusal to cower.
"You show respect to active military officers on these grounds, old man!" Trent barked, digging the muzzle closer. "I am seconds away from neutralizing an unidentified trespasser on restricted memorial property!"
Standing at parade rest along the outer walkway, two junior guards watched in nervous silence, but none dared question Trent’s authority.
The old man slowly lowered his cup, resting it steadily on his knee. His piercing gaze locked onto Trent’s furious face with cold, immovable gravity.
"A weapon is an instrument of discipline, son," the old man said in a low, gravelly baritone. "Not a toy to soothe your fragile ego."
"I gave you an order!" Trent screamed, his face turning red.
Chapter III: The Black Motorcade
Before Trent could rack the slide, the low, synchronized rumble of heavy V8 engines vibrated the brick pathway.