Marcus's hand didn't move.
The seconds stretched long enough that Wren could hear her own pulse hammering in her ears, could feel the tension radiating off Cruz's back where she stood pressed against him, his body a solid wall between her and every g*n trained on the man in front of them. Somewhere behind her, she heard Preacher's voice, low and controlled, murmuring something to one of his men — a warning, or an instruction, she couldn't tell which.
"I'm not armed," Marcus said finally, his voice gone thin, the composed political operative stripped away to reveal something closer to genuine fear. "I swear to you, I'm not—"
"Then show us," Dutch said. "Slow."
Marcus's fingers moved with exaggerated care, drawing out not a weapon but a phone, screen already lit, held up for the yard to
