The smug police officer locked cold steel cuffs on the wrists of this ebony-skinned uniformed soldier. He smirked, entirely convinced he held some phony seeking stolen honor. He never knew this fierce person he just mocked is one highly respected colonel. Plus, her swift, strictly done counterstrike will destroy his job forever.
The sky over Richmond, Virginia, was a bruised, heavy purple threatening rain that hadn't quite committed to falling. At a sprawling Shell gas station just off Interstate 95, the afternoon traffic was a steady, noisy hum. Alicia Reynolds stood by pump number four, the nozzle resting in the tank of her dark blue sedan.
At 46 years old, Alicia commanded a presence that didn't require her to raise her voice or puff out her chest. She had spent 22 years in the United States Army, surviving two combat deployments to Afghanistan, countless bureaucratic wars at the Pentagon, and the grueling climb up a ladder that was entirely stacked against her. Today, she was wearing her OCPs—operational camouflage pattern. Pinned to the center of her chest was the silver eagle of a full bird colonel. She was just trying to get a cup of black coffee and a tank of premium gas before a mandatory briefing at Fort Belvoir.
Inside the brightly lit convenience store, a 20-year-old cashier named Kyle was ringing up a line of customers. Near the coffee station stood Mitchell Davis. Mitchell was in his late 50s, sporting a faded tactical cap with a generic flag patch, a tight T-shirt stretched over a beer belly, and a lingering sense of resentment about how the world was changing. Mitchell had served three years in the peacetime military back in the late '80s, a fact he made sure everyone in a five-mile radius knew on a daily basis.
As Alicia walked through the sliding glass doors, the little bell chiming above her, Mitchell's eyes locked onto her. His gaze dragged up and down her uniform. He looked at her boots. He looked at the combat action badge on her chest. He looked at her hair, neatly secured in a regulation bun. And finally, he stared at the silver eagle.
In Mitchell's narrow worldview, a black woman in her mid-40s did not walk around wearing the rank of a colonel. To him, the math didn't add up. She didn't look like the colonels he remembered from his brief stint at Fort Bragg 30 years ago. Therefore, she had to be a fake.
Alicia felt the stare. Any woman who has spent two decades in the armed forces develops a sixth sense for that specific brand of hostile scrutiny. She ignored it. She poured her dark roast coffee, snapped a plastic lid onto the cup, and walked toward the register.
"Excuse me." A raspy, loud voice echoed through the store.
Alicia didn't turn immediately. She placed her coffee on the counter and pulled out her phone to use Apple Pay.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, Colonel," Mitchell barked, taking two aggressive steps toward her. The sarcasm in his voice was thick enough to choke on.
Kyle, the young cashier, froze, his hand hovering over the barcode scanner. The two other customers in the store nervously stepped back, sensing the sudden spike in tension.
Alicia turned slowly. Her expression was neutral, carved from years of dealing with insubordinate subordinates and arrogant contractors. "Can I help you?"