Charlie sat on the curb, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand. He could tell they were about to start swelling up. There was blood, but he wasn’t bleeding.

Red and blue lights took turns flash-flash-flashing—a mix of late model black SUVs with modern light bars, and the old gumball lights atop a few police and emergency vehicles that looked like relics from the 80s.

Where was he?

About two-dozen people were milling about, doing the post-event tasks that police and fire always seem to be doing: interviewing witnesses; treating the injured; patting down suspects; putting perps into the back of the SUVs. At least, that’s what he assumed was going on. He’d only ever seen this kind of thing in movies.

“You gonna make it?”

It took Charlie a moment to realize he was the one being addressed. A woman. Young, small frame, but she carried herself in a not-to-be-effed-with manner. He found his voice with an, “Um, what? Me? Oh,” he rubbed his knuckles again, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Your hand?”

He looked down. It was definitely going to swell. “Yeah. Hurts a little.”

“Yeah, I bet. Gonna probably have to see a doctor to get Johnny Martin’s teeth dug outta your knuckles. Don’t think that guy will ever eat solid foods again.” Who? What was she talking about? Did he hit someone? “Anyway,” she pulled out a cardboard tag attached to a zip tie and a clear plastic bag. “Gonna need your service weapon. You know the drill. Paperwork, all that shit.”

It took Charlie’s tired brain longer than it should of to calculate what she was saying. His ‘service weapon?’ What service? What weapon?! He taught middle school algebra!

She was looking at him, expectant.

“Sorry, boss, but you know how it is. Gotta do it. Document everything. Get it cleared as a righteous use of force, blah-blah-blah.” She held her hand out.

Before he was fully aware of his actions, Charlie had removed what he somehow knew to be a Colt .45, ejected the magazine, pulled the slide back and ejected a shell, catching it in mid-air. He racked the slide a few more times to ensure it was empty, checked the barrel, then flipped the gun around and handed it to the woman grip first. She took it as he dropped the mag and extra into the bag. Without looking up, she started in on the tag, throwing a ‘Thanks, Boss’ over her shoulder as she walked back toward the flashing lights.

Charlie sat, silent, the flashing nearly hypnotic. Why did he have a weapon? How the hell did he know how to render safe that same weapon? How did he know what ‘render safe’ even meant.

He held his sore right hand up to his face in the dim light. Why had he hit someone hard enough to worry about “digging teeth out” of his hand?

“You need to call it a night. Go home, get some rest.” Charlie turned to see a large, middle-aged man in a suit walking toward him. He had the same kind of no-nonsense bearing and government-issue countenance that the woman had. “We’ll take care of things here. You did good. It’s clear you did what was required. You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be fine?”

“Oh, for sure. For sure. Turns out we got ahold of the owner of the computer repair shop. Kid was scared to death. He lives on site, had security cams going the whole time. You’re all good, man. Get home. We got this.”

Charlie looked across the street at the small shop with bars over it’s doors and windows. “Can I see the video?”

———

The kid—he introduced himself as Cedar—ran the video for Charlie from his workstation, playing it on the bottom right of his four-monitor setup. Charlie watched the events unfold as though he was watching a movie full of strangers on a completely unfamiliar set, except that he was clearly one of the people on the screen. The whole thing took maybe a two or three minutes, start-to-finish.

“Can I see it again?”

“Again? Sure.” Cedar seemed to relax, happy to have a job to do, something he was comfortable with after the confusion and terror.

Charlie watched it all happen again.

Three rough-looking characters. The kind of men he’d change sides of the street to avoid. They are doing something, working on something. A car. Just barely in frame on the right of the screen. They turn, see Charlie coming toward them, and the woman from earlier, the one that took the gun he didn’t know he had.

Ponytail steps toward Charlie. They exchange words. The woman stands back and to the left of Charlie, and she’s keeping an eye on the other two.

Neck Tattoo gets fidgety. Nervous. Like he knows something’s about to kick off.

Beer Gut pulls something from his waistband, a gun.

Charlie quickly pushes pony tail backwards, hard—knocking him down—before using his right leg to close the gap with a well placed kick to the side of Beer Gut’s head. He crumples, the gun sliding away.

Neck Tattoo looks at the gun.

The woman pulls her own gun and yells something.

Ponytail manages to get back up.

Neck Tattoo lunges for the gun.

The woman fires, clipping him in the left arm.

Beer Gut sits up.

Charlie lands another kick to Beer Gut’s head, knocking him out. He pulls his side arm and puts two rounds into Ponytails center mass just as Ponytail’s hand raises up toward the woman, holding the gun. He finishes the ballet-precise movements by spinning into a right cross, knocking Neck Tattoo out completely.

“See,” the middle-aged man said. “Justified use of force. Textbook.” He put a familiar, friendly hand on Charlie’s shoulder and squeezed. “Even if you couldn’t help throwing in all that karate mumbo jumbo.”

The door to the shop opened and the woman poked her head in.

“C’mon, Chuck. I’ll give you a ride home.”

That sounded good. He joined her, sitting in the passenger-side of one of the black SUVs. As they drove away, he felt something pushing against his sternum, under the seatbelt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID badge: Charles Walker, Texas Ranger.

It was his picture on the ID. His details. His name.

What was happening? How was he in that SUV at that time of night with a stranger? How had he ended up confronting three very bad men? How did he know all that ‘karate mumbo jumbo?’

They drove into the darkness of the long-straight Texas Highway night, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier with each passing mile marker.

——-

“Wake up, hon. You’re going to be late?”

Charlie sat up, grabbing his iWatch. 7:43? Crap.

He rushed to throw on his clothes, brush his teeth, grab a cup of coffee and Costco muffin left on the kitchen island by his lovely bride, and floor his Prius toward the school.

He got there just as the first bell was ringing.

He grabbed a dry erase marker and started to write out the first problem of the day on the board when he noticed his hand.

His knuckles were bruised and swollen. And his hand smelled like something. Gun powder…?