“Don’t what?”
“Start working the room because I didn’t fall for the act.”
David’s eyebrows moved.
“What act?”
Jenkins pointed toward David’s camouflage trousers.
“This.”
David looked down.
“You mean pants?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No.”
“I don’t.”
Jenkins laughed.
A short ugly sound.
“Military pants.”
“Combat boots.”
“You walk in here standing straight, calling people by rank like you own the building.”
“You’ve probably been rehearsing it.”
For a moment David genuinely did not understand.
Then he did.
The insult itself mattered less than the contempt beneath it.
Jenkins believed David was pretending to have served.
Stolen valor.
Fake soldier.
David had encountered men who lied about military service before.
Usually the stories collapsed under one or two questions.
Wrong unit terminology.
Impossible dates.
Medals worn upside down.
Units that did not exist.
But Jenkins had asked David nothing.
Not unit.
Not duty station.
Not service dates.
Nothing.
He had looked at the credential.
Then at David.
Then decided.
David felt heat move slowly through his chest.
Not rage.
Something more dangerous.
The calm that came before rage.
He had learned to control that too.
“Officer Jenkins,” he said, “I served twenty-two years.”
“Sure.”
“I’m asking you one last time to run the identification number.”
“And I’m telling you to leave.”
David’s eyes moved toward Ruiz.
“Private, is the credential verification terminal functional?”
Ruiz opened her mouth.
Jenkins slapped one palm onto the desk.
“She isn’t talking to you.”
David looked at him.
Jenkins continued:
“You don’t get to come in here and start issuing instructions to soldiers.”
The word hit David strangely.
Soldiers.
For two decades, soldiers had been the center of his life.
Some infuriating.
Some brilliant.
Some terrified.
Some reckless.
Some barely old enough to shave.
Some older than he was.
He had trained them.
Promoted them.
Reprimanded them.
Written letters to their families.
Carried two of them out of burning vehicles.
Held one young private’s hand while a medic worked because the boy kept asking whether his mother had been called.
He had buried five.
Jenkins knew none of that.
He did not need to.
The card should have been enough.
Procedure should have been enough.
David leaned toward the desk.
“I’m not issuing instructions.”
“I’m asking for the verification process your own post policy requires.”
Jenkins’s smile vanished.
“You want to quote policy to me?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Jenkins reached toward David’s folder.
David’s hand immediately came down over it.
“Do not touch my medical records.”
The lobby seemed to tighten.
Jenkins looked at David’s hand.
Then his face.
“Move your hand.”
“No.”
Ruiz whispered:
“Officer Jenkins…”
He ignored her.
David said:
“These are protected medical documents.”
“I need to inspect what you’re bringing into the building.”
“You already passed them through X-ray.”
“Move your hand.”
“No.”
Jenkins reached.
David did not grab him.
Did not push.
Did not make any sudden movement.
He simply slid the folder backward.
Jenkins caught the top edge.
The cardboard bent.
Several papers slipped out and scattered across the counter.