Chivalry: Prologue

The rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoed in Robert Thatcher's small home gym. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pulled himself up on the doorframe, a grimace etched on his face. Each rep was a defiance against the phantom pain in his leg, a silent promise to the ghost of his old drill sergeant that he hadn't gone soft. Thirty years since P Company, and the voice still screamed in his head.
He pushed, pulled, straining for one final, agonizing heave. Then, the shrill chime of the doorbell cut through the labored breaths.
(Ding dong)
Robert dropped, wiping sweat from his eyes. He hadn't seen Alistair Locke in person for five years, not since the Gulf War. And Alistair, ever the harbinger of trouble, had brought Costa coffee. This wasn't a social call. Robert knew it in his bones.
