Was someone in his family hurt or taken from him today? Is he seeking revenge on me?
He wants to kill me.
It’s him or me.
I pull my sidearm out from the holster on my leg. I kick him in the knees and jump to my feet. He barely loses his balance but there is one-second of surprise and I knock him down with an elbow to his nose. I press my boot against his throat and stare him in the eyes, searching for the fear I don’t see. He doesn’t care that I have the ability to win or that he could die. I point my sidearm closer to his forehead and he pulls out a small pistol, aiming it at me. I pull my trigger into his forehead just before he pulls his into mine.
He’s dead. His eyes are still open, looking as fearless as he was before. The men in my battalion surround me, some on the lookout for more, other’s panicking for being thirty-seconds too late to the sneak attack.
We thought we were safe. We have guards watching our area. You can never be too safe.
Two of the other guys grab me by the arms to help me away from the scene. “Come up, bro. Let’s walk away.”
“We got this taken care of,” another guy says.
I should be numb.
He was number five. That’s five too many.
“Yes, could we possibly have our food to go? I’m not feeling very well,” I hear Melody tell the waitress.
“Is he okay?” the waitress asks.
“Oh yeah, he’s just had a long day at work.”
A long day? I work in a bourbon shop now. I’ve experienced the raw definition of a long day;An endless hummer ride through an Afghanistan sandstorm with a mortar attack blocking us in.Melody doesn’t need to know about that kind of “long day.”
“I’ll get your food prepared to go. No problem at all,” I hear.
“Brett, I need you to look at me,” Melody demands.
I try to do as she asks, but I look directly past her at the man sitting two tables away with a red and white shemagh around his neck. He reaches to the side of his right thigh, the side I don’t have visibility on. He’s going to attack.
I don’t have a weapon. I have nothing but my hands to save us.
The man twists his head to look at me as he releases a laugh.
I slide out of the booth and rush toward him, pulling his arms behind his chair, securing them in one hand as I wrap my arm around his neck. He struggles to pull away from me, but pushes his chair back, forcing me to lose my footing. His arms are free, and he's pinning me to the ground at the shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I’m breathing so hard I can’t muster a word. I’m sweating, shaking, debating whether to kick his knees to regain my position. “Why are you here?” I grunt.
The man turns his head to look at the people he’s seated with. “I’m having dinner with my family. Why are you here?”
The thoughts in my head clear and I realize I’m staring up at an innocent man holding me to the ground in a family-style restaurant. What if he’s just acting innocent?
The man releases his hands from my shoulders and takes my hand, pulling me up to my feet and visually scans me from head to toe. “Marine,” he says.
I’m wearing an old pair of camo pants I cut into shorts.
Is my title derogatory to him or is he asking? I could be a threat. Therefore, he could be a threat.
“Brett!” It’s the fourth time I’ve heard my name shouted in the last sixty seconds.
I turn to face the table where I was seated. Melody has Parker facing the wall, and she’s staring at me with more horror than I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face.
“I’m not here to hurt anybody. I live here in America. My family and I are traveling to Canada to visit Quebec. That is all.”
My mouth is open, ready to speak, knowing an apology is the very least I can do. I was wrong. The entire restaurant now knows I was wrong. I attacked a man while he was eating his dinner.
