My throat tightens. Every instinct screams to run, but I force myself to stay still. "And if I refuse?"
"Then we stop asking nicely." His hand moves to his jacket, shows me the grip of a holstered weapon. Black polymer. "You're coming with us either way. Question is whether you do it conscious or unconscious."
Clear coercion, clear criminal intent. Everything DOJ needs.
The espresso machine keeps hissing. Someone's phone rings.
"Hospital," I say quietly.
The door crashes open. Marc comes through first, rifle up, moving with lethal precision. "Sheriff's department! Don't move. Don't even breathe."
Gym-rat at the door reaches for his weapon. Finn materializes from behind him—customer with the newspaper—drives him face-first into the wall. Secures him before he can clear leather, arm twisted behind his back, face pressed against plaster.
Gray-hair starts to rise. Marc's rifle swings to him, barrel at his chest. "Hands where I can see them. Now."
For a second, I think he'll try it.
Federal agents flood the room. Calder's team, vests marked FBI, weapons drawn. Customers scream and scramble. A chair scrapes across the floor. Someone's crying, high and panicked.
"Hands! Show me your hands!"
Gray-hair's whole body goes rigid. Finally, slowly, he raises both hands. He shows empty palms.
Marc keeps his rifle trained on him while agents move in. They cuff him, pat him down, remove the weapon from his jacket. Second gun from an ankle holster. Knife from his belt.
Only when the contractor's secure, disarmed, being hauled to his feet does Marc look at me.
"You hurt?"
"No." I'm trembling now, shock catching up. "I'm fine."
He's beside me in three strides, scans me head to toe like he's checking for injuries anyway. Face, throat, hands, torso. Searching for blood, bruises, anything wrong.
Satisfied, he steps back, but his face shifts, reveals how badly he wants to pull me against him and not let go.
Calder appears, already on her phone. "Clean intercept. Both contractors in custody, full audio and video of the coercion and threat." She holds up her phone, showing the live feed from my body camera. "DOJ has everything they need."
My legs give out. I sit back down, still shaking. It worked. We got them.
The contractors are hauled out, still protesting their innocence. Calder coordinates with local FBI, establishes jurisdiction, gets the interrogation rooms set up. Around us, other customers are being interviewed, statements taken, the coffee shop transformed into a crime scene.
Marc doesn't leave my side. He doesn't touch me, but his presence is solid, grounding. When a customer bumps into me, panicking toward the exit, his hand moves to my shoulder. Brief and reassuring.
"You did good," he says quietly. "Stayed calm, got them talking."
"Felt like I was going to throw up the entire time."
"Fear's normal. You used it right." His thumb brushes my shoulder blade, just once, before he drops his hand. "Let's get you out of here."
Marc stays with me during the cleanup, the debrief, the coordination with local FBI. Calder handles jurisdiction, getsthe contractors processed, arranges transport to the field office downtown.
By the time we're in her vehicle heading across Anchorage, the shaking has mostly stopped.
The field office is all fluorescent lights and beige walls. Agents move through hallways, efficient and focused. Calder leads us to an observation room, gestures to the one-way glass.
"Interrogation's starting soon," she says. "DOJ wants this documented properly. You don't have to watch, but?—"
"I want to." I have to see this through, see Haywood's contractors admit what they tried to do.
