“Negative, dispatch. Just a bit of a delay.”
For the next 15 minutes, no one on the bus moved. The only sounds were the howling wind outside, the idling engine, and the pathetic, agonizing moans of Trent and Cody. The college student in the front row stared at Arthur, his mouth slightly open, looking at the back of the driver’s head as if he were looking at a superhero or a monster.
Blue and red lights soon began to cut through the blizzard, reflecting off the white snow. Two Oak Creek Sheriff’s Department SUVs pulled up behind the bus, followed shortly by an ambulance. Deputy Sheriff Mike Carlson, a massive bearded man who had been with the department for 20 years, boarded the bus, his hand resting on his sidearm. He took one look at the carnage in the aisle—Trent Lawson, the local tough guy, weeping and clutching a dislocated elbow, and Cody, the heavyweight, unable to put weight on his leg.
Carlson looked past them to the driver’s seat. Arthur was calmly logging the incident on his clipboard.
“Jesus Christ, Art,” Carlson muttered, stepping over Trent. “What happened here?”
Trent looked up at the deputy, his face pale, spit and tears mixing on his chin. “Arrest him!” Trent sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at Arthur. “He assaulted us! He’s a psycho! I want to press charges!”
Carlson looked down at Trent. He recognized the kid. Everyone in town knew Trent and his abrasive gym crew. Then Carlson looked back at Arthur. The deputy let out a long, heavy sigh. He unclipped his radio.
“Dispatch, we’re going to need a tow for the suspects and run a background for a formal report.”
Carlson knelt down next to Trent, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. “What are you doing?” Trent screamed, panicking as Carlson secured his uninjured wrist. “I’m the victim here. He attacked me.”
Carlson leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that only Trent could hear. “Listen to me very carefully, you stupid kid. You don’t know who you just swung at.”
“He’s a bus driver,” Trent hissed, wincing in pain.
“His name is Arthur Hayes,” Carlson said, his eyes hard. “Ten years ago, he was Commander Arthur Hayes, United States Navy. He ran SEAL Team Three, Task Unit Bruiser. He spent four deployments in Ramadi clearing houses in hand-to-hand combat against insurgents. The only reason you are currently breathing is because he decided to let you.”
Trent’s blood ran cold. The pain in his elbow suddenly felt secondary to the icy dread pooling in his stomach. He looked past the deputy’s shoulder to the front of the bus. Arthur had taken off his aviators to wipe the lenses. For a split second, Trent saw his eyes. There was no anger in them, no adrenaline, no pride—just the empty thousand-yard stare of a man who had seen the darkest corners of the earth and survived them all.
