I stared down at my phone, tapping my fingers on the table. I’d initially resolved to forget about Harper, but then I’d changed my mind. She hadn’t seemed thrilled to see me, but maybe that was just because she was afraid she was going to lose me again. I hadn’t seen her in years, and suddenly I felt bad that I hadn’t found some way to keep in touch with her. Not that I’d had her address or anything. But I could have found some way if I’d wanted to. I knew the company that she worked for, after all.
She hadn’t stayed in contact with me either. There was no reason that I should feel guilty about it.
But for some reason, I did.
So I’d called her, and she’d blown me off. Maybe there really was something more to it. Maybe she was married, or at least engaged. I should have looked at her hand when I’d seen her earlier. But I’d been so surprised to see her that it hadn’t even occurred to me to look.
Anyway, if she was married or in a relationship, you’d think she would just tell me that. I didn’t know why she was being so vague about whatever she was thinking.
Even though I knew I probably shouldn’t do it, I opened my phone’s browser and typed her name into the search engine. I scrolled through page after page of results, byline after byline. But there was nothing really personal on there. I couldn’t find anything about a husband, but I also couldn’t find any other details about her life. And it wasn’t as though she wrote op-eds or anything that might give her some clue about what she was thinking about in her day-to-day life.
I sighed with frustration and closed out of the window. I didn’t know why she wouldn’t talk to me, and I didn’t know why it bothered me so much that she didn’t want to. I hadn’t really thought about her in years, but now it was like, after seeing her once, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. There was nothing between us, though; she made that very clear.
I was disgusted with myself, and I decided I had to get out of the house. Being cooped up really didn’t suit me, not since foster care. And especially not after so many long, hard years in the military, where even when things hadn’t been busy, I’d had a routine, things to do at any given point. And even when there was nothing happening, I was generally around other people.
I hated the silence. Even though it was never really silent there, on the busy street where our apartment was.
I grabbed my bike and headed out into the city. Riding through the streets, dodging traffic, gave me enough of a thrill that I was able to calm my thoughts again. Same as with the punching bag, there was a rhythm to it, pedals going around, legs up and down. I headed out along the Charles River, really getting into the rhythm of it as I meandered along the long, flat bike path toward Cambridge.
When I’d been out for nearly an hour, I stopped at a café to grab a bite to eat. The place was small, a little neighborhood place. I was still delighted to find places like that in Boston. I’d expected the city to be overwhelmed by chain restaurants, but there were still a surprising number of little hipster places like this. It felt comfortable. Personal.
I ordered a hot turkey sandwich and a coffee and sat at a counter by the window, people-watching as I slowly ate my meal. After all those years in the military, I couldn’t turn off my instincts. I was watching for a threat, which was ridiculous; this was Cambridge in the middle of the day, just down the road from some of the country’s top universities. Most of the people I was watching were clearly students, on their way to or from class or work.
Suddenly I saw one guy who triggered my instincts. I tried to puzzle out just what I found so alarming about him. He was wearing a hoodie with the hood flipped up, but he could just be any other student. The way he was lurking across the street, his hands shoved in his pockets, seemed strange, though, as was the way his eyes darted back and forth. It didn’t look like he was waiting for someone; it looked more like he was scanning the area.
Not only that, but I realized I had seen him walk by the place twice already.
I frowned, watching as he finally made up his mind, darting across the street toward the café. I shook my head. Maybe the guy just hadn’t been able to decide what he wanted to eat for a late lunch. But I swiveled around in my seat, keeping my eyes on him as he waited impatiently in line.
He was fidgeting with something in the pocket of his hoodie, rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes and back again. When he got to the front of the line, he suddenly pulled his hands out—and brandished a gun on the startled cashier.
“Come on, give me all your money,” he said in a low voice.
I stared at the gun, trying to figure out if it was real, if this was really happening. Why would the guy try to rob a café, of all places? The cashier probably didn’t have that much money in the register. Maybe the would-be robber thought it would go unnoticed if he didn’t take that much money or something? Whatever he was thinking, I thought he was an idiot.
And idiots can be dangerous and unpredictable.
Fortunately, the guy really seemed clueless about what he was doing. He had his whole focus turned to the cashier and wasn’t paying attention to anyone else. Maybe he felt invincible with that gun in his hands. Maybe he just didn’t expect anyone to want to intervene when he had a gun and they probably didn’t.
It made it easy to jump the guy from behind, twisting his arm so that it was pointed away from anyone. Then, I pinched his nerve point hard until the gun slipped from his fingers. A kick to the back of his knees and he dropped to the floor, with my weight pinning him there. Jus
t for good measure, I nudged the gun a little farther from us.
When I glanced up, everyone was just staring at us. “Call 911,” I snapped at the cashier. The poor guy was pale and terrified-looking. My instincts were to calm him down, but first, I needed to know that the police were on the way. Short, simple commands. “Get the police over here.”
The kid jolted, grabbing the phone and doing just that.
The cops were there quickly. I continued to pin the guy to the floor, staring him down as he struggled against me. He was no match for me. He needed that gun to be a challenge for anyone.
“All right, we’ll take it from here,” one of the policemen said, putting a hand on my shoulder. I flinched and scowled up at her before my mind caught up, and I realized she wasn’t another attacker. I wordlessly rolled away from the guy and got to my feet, giving myself a little mental shake.
“You know, that could have been very dangerous, what you did,” one of the police officers said disapprovingly. Sergeant Matthews, according to his nametag and insignia.
I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I have plenty of experience dealing with dudes with guns,” I told him, trying to keep the disdain out of my voice. I dug into my pocket for my wallet and flipped out my military ID.
It looked like the guy’s eyebrows were going to crawl right off into his receding hairline. He saluted me. “Guess you probably do have a little experience,” he said.
“Just a little,” I said. I looked at the kid as they dragged him, handcuffed, out to their police car. I shrugged. “He wasn’t a particularly difficult target. Didn’t really know what he was doing. I think he was just as scared as the cashier. And he’d been acting pretty shifty even before he came in here.”