Were eight armed tactical operators from the United States Marshals Service // Special Operations Group, their suppressed carbines held at high-ready retention, their Level IV ceramic torso plates bearing the gold lettering:
USMS // SPECIAL ASSET ENFORCEMENT
And walking between them, wearing an un-ironed dark-charcoal trench coat over an un-buttoned civilian suit, carrying an unsealed, red-labeled legal folio bound in dark-blue calfskin…
Was Detective Sergeant Marcus Vance.
The Colorado State Trooper who had handed me the defibrillator pads on the gravel of Route 6 three hours ago.
Except Marcus Vance was no longer wearing his state patrol uniform.
Pinned to the lapel of his civilian coat was the gold five-pointed star of the United States Department of Justice // Criminal Division Special Task Force.
Marcus stepped into the boardroom.
He did not look at Nick. He did not look at the other eight partners trembling against the wall.
He walked straight to Carter Holbrook, caught the billionaire by the collar of his double-breasted navy blazer with an unyielding, mechanical grip, and slammed his two-hundred-pound frame down onto the walnut table with concussive force:
