He used his best impression of Jackson’s cordial nature. “You’re soaked. Why don’t you share my umbrella for a second?”
“Let go,” he demanded. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sure you’re fine,” Marshall said softly, “but we should make sure we understand each other.”
That got the man’s attention. His gaze snapped back, all pretense gone. Close up, Marshall saw the details—an ill-fitting suit, the cheap watch meant to look expensive, the faint bulge under the jacket that didn’t fit with the rest of the silhouette. Shoulder holster.
“You packing for a latte run?” he asked softly, his tone at odds with the fury in his veins at the realization that an armed operative was tailing Norah.
The man froze. Then his hand twitched toward his coat.
Marshall moved faster. He pivoted, twisting the stranger’s wrist with his left hand while his right still gripped the umbrella, using its shaft as leverage against the forearm. He pressed it into the joint with surgical precision. A dry crack snapped, the macabre sound barely cutting through the rain. The man hissed, teeth bared, knees buckling. Marshall shifted, keeping him upright—outwardly still just a pair of businessmen recovering from a stumble and having a casual chat.
“Bad idea,” Marshall murmured. “You keep reaching, you’re gonna need to sign your hospital waiver with a pen in your teeth.”
The man gritted something that might have been a curse.
“Who sent you?” Marshall asked, tightening the angle.
No answer. Just the defiant lift of a jaw. Professional enough to keep his mouth shut.
Marshall leaned closer, his voice nothing but a quiet threat. “I can tell you’re not local. You’ve done surveillance, but you’re not built for extraction. And you’re alone. So either you’re freelance, or you’re bait.”
Sleet slid off both of them now, the tiny ice particles gathering around their shoes. The man’s breath came short. Marshall’s didn’t change at all. He should’ve stopped at the disarm. But the image of Norah glancing over her shoulder replayed in his head, and the line between control and anger blurred just enough for him to tighten once more. Marshall glanced toward the street, then released him without warning. The stranger stumbled, cradling his arm.
“Walk away,” Marshall said evenly. “Now. Before I decide to check the other pocket.”
The man hesitated, hate flashing behind his eyes, then turned and melted into the after-work crowd—favoring the injured wrist but not running.
Marshall watched until the gray suit vanished into the blur of umbrellas. His own pulse stayed steady, but the ghost of the crack replayed in his head. He flexed his fingers once, shaking off the adrenaline before pulling his phone.
“Joey,” he said when she picked up.
“We’ve got Jackson on it. Miranda’s already got him and Will on a flight to Geneva.” He was glad they’d found someone else to respond to the President’s request, but that wasn’t his main concern right now.
“I’ve got trouble. Gray suit, Eastern bloc accent, armed,” he said. “He was watching Norah. I intercepted.”
A beat of silence. “Define ‘intercepted.’”
“He won’t be typing for a few weeks.”
Joey muttered under her breath. “You think it’s Syndicate, or outside?”
“Outside,” Marshall said. “But on someone’s payroll.”
He started toward his car, rain slicking his hair to his forehead. “Pull traffic cam footage from K Street—five forty-five to eight. I want to know who he reports to.”
“Copy. And Marshall?”
“Yeah?”
Joey’s voice softened, rare for her. “You can’t keep this up. You’re wound too tight.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Tight doesn’t slip.” He ended the call before she could argue.
The café glowed behind him, cozy and oblivious. Somewhere out there, Norah was staring out a cab window, still thinking she was being careful.
He hadn’t meant to break the guy’s wrist. But the second he realized she was being hunted, every disciplined reflex had turned into fear.
