Keller stepped closer.
“You’ve been standing here watching the store.”
Marcus glanced toward the windows.
“So have you.”
Keller’s mouth tightened.
“Hands on the car.”
Marcus did not move.
“Why?”
“Because I told you.”
“That isn’t a legal reason.”
Keller’s right hand moved toward the handcuff pouch.
“Keep arguing.”
Marcus looked directly at him.
“Was there a call?”
“What?”
“Did somebody report a crime?”
Keller’s eyes sharpened.
“That’s police business.”
“Did somebody inside accuse me of something?”
“You always ask this many questions?”
“When someone blocks my vehicle and demands identification, yes.”
Inside Marcus’s earpiece, Lena’s voice came quietly.
“Marcus.”
He ignored it.
Keller took another step.
“Put your hands on the car.”
Marcus lifted the phone slightly.
“Try it. The FBI is listening.”
For the first time, something changed in Keller’s face.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Then he laughed.
“The FBI.”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to think before touching me.”
Keller looked Marcus up and down.
Something about that inspection felt familiar.
Marcus had experienced versions of it since adolescence.
Security guards watching him longer than other customers.
Hotel employees asking which guest he was visiting.
Executives assuming the white analyst beside him was the person in charge.
The details changed.
The pause did not.
But Marcus did not yet know whether Keller’s behavior came from bias, corruption, bad judgment, or some combination.
Then he glanced toward the store.
Crane had disappeared from the coffee station.
Marcus spoke softly.
“Target moving.”
Lena responded immediately.
“Location?”
“Rear corridor.”
Keller heard him.
“Who are you talking to?”
Marcus watched the store.
“People recording you.”
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
Keller reached.
Marcus moved the device away.
The officer grabbed Marcus’s wrist.
Every muscle in Marcus’s body reacted.
Training.
Years of defensive tactics.
He could have turned the grip.
Controlled Keller’s elbow.
Created distance.
He did none of it.
“Release my wrist.”
Keller twisted his arm.
“You’re interfering with an investigation.”
“No.”
Marcus’s voice remained flat.
“You are interfering with one.”
Keller shoved him toward the sedan.
Marcus caught himself against the wet roof.
Rain struck his hands.
Lena’s voice sharpened.
“We are moving.”
“Negative.”
There was a pause.
“Marcus.”
“Hold.”
He looked sideways at Keller.
Something was wrong.
Not merely the stop.
The urgency.
Keller did not care who Marcus was.
He cared about removing Marcus from the parking lot.
Marcus looked past him.
The rear emergency door of the store opened.
Elliot Crane stepped outside.
Black duffel bag in his right hand.
He saw Keller.
Then Marcus.
The look between Crane and Keller lasted less than a second.
But Marcus spent his career watching people try not to react.
He saw it.
Recognition.
Crane immediately turned toward a white pickup parked beside the dumpsters.
Marcus felt his heartbeat slow.
There you are.
“Keller.”
The officer forced Marcus’s right arm behind his back.
“What?”
“Tell your friend to stop.”
Keller pulled out the first cuff.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You knew he was inside.”
“Shut your mouth.”
Click.
The cuff closed.
Marcus said:
“You blocked my car before he ran.”
Keller pulled Marcus toward the patrol cruiser.
“You’re about to have a very bad morning.”