Silence descended on the alley, save for the idling engine of the pickup truck and the wet, rattling breathing of the man on the ground with the shattered nose. Chloe stood frozen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her mind, heavily trained in the geometry of combat, was desperately trying to analyze what she had just witnessed. It wasn’t jiu-jitsu. It wasn’t Muay Thai. It wasn’t boxing. It was pure, unadulterated violence, stripped of all sporting pretense. It was a combat system designed for one specific purpose: to dismantle a human being in the shortest amount of time possible with maximum prejudice.
The awkward square stance she had laughed at? It was a close-quarters combat platform designed for body armor and weapon retention. It was meant to keep vital organs protected while allowing both hands to strike lethally. Arthur slowly stood up straight. He let out a long, ragged exhale. The brief explosive burst of violence had taken a toll on him. His shoulders slumped and the heavy dragging limp returned to his right leg. He reached down with his left hand, gripping his right shoulder as if the joint ached.
As he pulled his hand away, the heavy collar of his oversized blue coverall slipped down his shoulder, exposing his collarbone and upper chest. Chloe stared. There, etched into the leathery, wrinkled skin just below his collarbone, was a tattoo. It was old. The ink had blurred and faded into a bruised, muted blue over decades of sun and sweat. But the shape was unmistakable. An eagle clutching a flintlock pistol, an anchor, and a trident—the United States Navy SEAL insignia. Chloe felt the blood drain from her face.
Suddenly, the limp didn’t look like arthritis. It looked like shrapnel. The hunched shoulders didn’t look like bad posture. They looked like the posture of a man who had carried rucksacks and dead friends across terrain most people couldn’t even point to on a map. Arthur noticed her staring. He nonchalantly pulled the collar of his coveralls back up, hiding the faded ink. He didn’t look proud. He looked deeply, profoundly exhausted. He turned his gaze down to the man in the silver jacket who was just starting to twitch and moan on the asphalt.
“Get your friends,” Arthur said. His gravelly voice was back, quiet, unassuming. “Put them in the truck and don’t ever come back to my shop.” The wiry man, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, scrambled backward like a crab. “Okay, okay, man. Jesus, we’re going.” He hauled the thick brawler up by his armpits, dragging him toward the truck. The leader managed to roll onto his hands and knees, blood pouring from his ruined face, coughing and spitting out teeth. Between the two conscious men, they managed to throw their unconscious friend into the bed of the truck and scrambled into the cab.
