Chapter 2: The Arrogance of Stripes

Chapter 2: The Arrogance of Stripes

The tap on the driver's side window was three sharp raps from a knuckle, impatient and demanding. Hawk didn’t flinch. He slowly turned his head, his face a mask of practiced neutrality, and looked into the face of his tormentor.

The Marine standing outside his window was young, early twenties at most, with the kind of conventionally handsome face that was made for smirking. His MP cover was canted at a precise, arrogant angle, and a single lock of slicked-back hair had escaped, resting on his forehead like a punctuation mark for his disdain. But it was the grin that held Hawk’s attention. It was a wide, smug, punchable grin that said he knew he had all the power and was going to enjoy every second of wielding it. On his arm, an MP brassard gleamed under the strobing red and blue lights. The name tape on his chest read GALLO.

"Evening, Sergeant," the Lance Corporal said, his voice dripping with false deference. He leaned down, placing a hand on the roof of the Bronco as if claiming it. "License and registration, please."

Hawk’s eyes, which had earned him his nickname for missing nothing, took in every detail: the over-starched uniform, the unearned swagger, the predatory look in the young man's eyes. This was not a Marine conducting a traffic stop. This was a bully who had found a uniform to hide in.

Wordlessly, Hawk reached for the glove compartment, his movements deliberate and slow. He produced the vehicle registration and pulled his wallet from his back pocket, extracting his military ID and driver's license. He passed them through the open window.

Gallo took them, barely glancing at the documents before tucking them into his ticket book. "You in a hurry to get somewhere tonight, Sergeant? Seemed like you were having some trouble staying in your lane back there. A little bit of weaving. A man might think you've had a few drinks."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and greasy. Hawk’s gaze remained locked on Gallo’s. He hadn’t swerved once. He had held his line with the precision of a sniper settling his crosshairs. The only erratic driving that had occurred was from the truck now parked behind him.

"No, Lance Corporal," Hawk said, his voice level and cold. "I have not been drinking."

Gallo’s smirk widened. He clearly enjoyed the friction, the pushback. "Right. Well, I'm going to have to write you up for reckless driving. It's a serious offense on a federal installation. Could have implications for your career, you know?"

The threat was blatant. This was the goal all along. Not a ticket for a moving violation, but a black mark on a permanent record. A stain that could halt a promotion, deny a favorable duty station, or worse. For a career Marine like Hawk, it was a knife aimed at the heart of his twenty-year plan. A cold fury, different from the hot anger of a bar fight, began to crystallize in his chest. It was the icy rage of injustice. Logic and reason were useless here; Gallo wasn't interested in the truth. He was on a power trip, and Hawk was just the unlucky soul he’d chosen for a ride.

"You do what you feel you have to, Lance Corporal," Hawk said, the words clipped.

Before Gallo could retort, the passenger door of the MP truck slammed shut and another figure approached. This Marine was older, broader, and wore the chevrons of a Corporal. His movements were more measured, more professional. He stopped a few feet behind Gallo, his expression unreadable in the flashing lights.

"What's the situation, Gallo?" the Corporal asked, his voice calm but authoritative.

"Just writing a ticket, Corporal Miller," Gallo said without turning around, his focus still locked on Hawk. "Caught this Sergeant here driving erratically. Failure to maintain his lane."

Miller stepped forward, peering past Gallo's shoulder and into the Bronco. He gave Hawk a quick, assessing look—one NCO to another. "That so?" he said, his tone suggesting doubt. "Was he speeding?"

"He was doing the speed limit," Gallo admitted, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "But he was all over the road. Clear violation."

Miller was silent for a moment. "Gallo, come here."

Gallo’s jaw tightened, but he straightened up and took two steps back to confer with his superior. They were just outside Hawk's window, their voices low but carried on the still night air. Hawk kept his eyes forward, his hands still on the wheel, the picture of a compliant motorist. But his ears were tuned to their conversation.

"What the hell are you doing?" Miller's voice was a harsh whisper. "This is Sergeant Riley. He's a PMI over at the range. His record is spotless."

"I don't care if he's the goddamn Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps," Gallo hissed back, his arrogance flaring. "I saw him swerve. He's getting the ticket. It's my stop."

"Your stop? You were baiting him for five miles with your high beams, Vinnie! I saw the whole thing from the passenger seat. You were trying to get him to speed, and when he didn't, you invent this?"

Hawk’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles ached. So the other MP knew. He knew and had let it happen.

"I'm the one making the stop, and I'm the one writing the ticket," Gallo insisted, his voice rising. "It's my discretion."

"It's my ass, too, if this goes sideways!" Miller shot back. "You write a bullshit ticket on a Staff NCO known for being squared away, and you think it's not going to get looked at? You think his First Sergeant isn't going to make a call? Use your head for something other than a hat rack for once."

The sheer, unadulterated arrogance was breathtaking. Hawk watched the exchange in his side mirror. A Lance Corporal, barely out of boot camp, arguing with his NCO, openly defying him over a transparent abuse of power. Gallo wasn't just a bully; he was a liability, a cancer in the uniform. He represented everything Hawk despised: laziness, disrespect for the chain of command, and a fundamental misunderstanding of what it meant to be a Marine. It was the arrogance of stripes worn without the weight of responsibility.

Miller finally seemed to have had enough. He took a step forward, invading Gallo’s personal space. "Give me the book," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Gallo hesitated, his face a mask of defiance. For a second, Hawk thought the Lance Corporal might actually refuse. But something in the Corporal's eyes, a promise of profound and immediate pain, made him relent. He slapped the ticket book into Miller's outstretched hand with ill-disguised petulance.

Miller walked back to the Bronco's window. He opened the book, tore out the half-written citation, and ripped it into small pieces, letting them flutter to the gravel. He handed Hawk’s ID and registration back.

"Sergeant Riley," Miller said, his voice now formal and professional. "Watch your driving out here. It's late."

It wasn't an apology, but it was an acknowledgment. A signal that the game was over.

"Will do, Corporal," Hawk replied, his tone even.

"Gallo," Miller barked over his shoulder. "Get in the truck. Now."

Gallo shot Hawk a look of pure, unadulterated hatred before turning and stomping back to the MP vehicle. The promise in that glare was clear: this wasn't over.

Hawk waited until the MP truck had pulled away, its emergency lights extinguished, before starting his engine. He pulled back onto the deserted road, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving behind a cold, heavy residue.

He hadn't gotten the ticket. His record was safe. But the incident had left a scar. He had been powerless, targeted, and subjected to the whims of a petty tyrant with a badge. The injustice of it settled deep in his gut, a hard, indigestible knot.

He drove the rest of the way to his barracks in silence, the smug grin of Vincent "Vinnie" Gallo burned into his memory. He was let off with a warning, but a warning was not justice. As he parked the Bronco and killed the engine for the second time that night, a quiet promise formed in the back of his mind.

He wouldn't forget the name. He wouldn't forget the face.

A seed of vengeance, small and cold and patient, had been planted. And on the fertile ground of Marine Corps discipline, it would wait for its season to grow.