Graham replaced the fuel nozzle.
He glanced toward the store.
The cashier was visible behind the counter, an older woman arranging coffee cups.
The girl was moving slowly toward the entrance.
Good.
Then the white van's driver's door opened.
Graham heard it before he saw it.
Metal hinge.
Rubber seal.
Foot hitting pavement.
"Lacey."
The man's voice carried across the station.
The girl froze.
Graham turned only slightly.
The man stood beside the van.
Mid-forties, perhaps.
Clean-shaven.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
Completely ordinary.
That bothered Graham.
People expected monsters to look like monsters.
Most didn't.
"Lacey," the man repeated, smiling this time. "Come on, sweetheart. We're leaving."
Sweetheart.
Graham watched the girl's shoulders tighten.
She didn't turn around.
The man took a step.
"Lacey."
The girl started toward the store.
The smile disappeared from the man's face.
"Hey."
Another step.
"I said we're leaving."
Graham moved.
He didn't approach the man.
Instead, he swung onto his motorcycle and started the engine.
The Harley exploded into life beneath the canopy.
The sound made everyone look.
Graham rolled forward.
The man relaxed slightly, apparently assuming the biker was leaving.
Graham wasn't.
He turned the handlebars.
Then slowly positioned six hundred pounds of motorcycle directly across the narrowest exit between the pumps and the curb.
The white van could still move.
But not easily.
Not quickly.
Graham killed the engine.
The man stared at him.
"What are you doing?"
Graham removed one glove.
Then the other.
"Bike's acting funny."
"Move it."
Graham looked toward the motorcycle.
"Working on it."
The man glanced toward the girl.
She had reached the convenience-store door.
"Come here, Lacey."
She opened the door.
The man stepped forward.
Graham stepped between them.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The man stopped.
For the first time, the two men really looked at each other.
Graham was six-foot-two, broad across the shoulders despite his age, his beard streaked heavily with gray. The years had put lines around his eyes and stiffness in his knees, but they hadn't removed the quiet physical confidence that came from knowing exactly what he could and couldn't do.
The stranger smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
"Problem?"
Graham shrugged.
"Hope not."
"That's my daughter."
"Okay."
"We're in a hurry."
"Looks like she's going inside."
"She forgot something."
Graham looked toward the store.
The girl had disappeared inside.
"Kids do that."
The stranger stared.
Something shifted in his expression.
He was calculating.
Who is this man?
What does he know?
How much did she say?
Graham had seen that calculation before.
"Move the motorcycle."
"I will."
"When?"
"When it starts."
"You just started it."
Graham looked at him.
"Then I guess the problem's intermittent."
The man's jaw tightened.
Graham almost admired the effort it took him to remain calm.
Almost.
Inside the convenience store, the girl had approached the counter.
Graham could see the cashier leaning down toward her.
Good.
The stranger saw it too.
His composure cracked.
He started toward the entrance.
Graham moved with him.
The man stopped again.
"Get out of my way."
Graham's voice remained quiet.
"Why?"
"My daughter's inside."
"Then she'll still be inside in thirty seconds."
"What exactly are you implying?"
"Nothing."
The stranger took another step.
Graham didn't move.
"You're making a mistake, old man."
There it was.
Not sir.
Not buddy.
Not even asshole.
Old man.
A threat disguised as disrespect.
Graham had heard worse.
"Could be."
The stranger looked toward the store again.
The cashier was now staring through the window.
Graham raised his voice.
"Ma'am."
The cashier looked at him.
"Lock the door."
The stranger's face changed.
"Call 911."
Everything happened at once.
The man lunged toward the store.
Graham stepped into his path.
"Move!"
"No."
The stranger shoved him.
Graham stumbled backward but stayed upright.
"Last warning."
"Mine too."
The man swung.
The punch caught Graham along the jaw.
Pain flashed white across his vision.
He tasted blood.
For a fraction of a second, he was thirty-five again.
Training room.
Mats.
Sweat.
Someone yelling instructions.