She mocked the man in the wheelchair for blocking her Bentley. Two minutes later

I didn’t move. I didn’t wipe my face. I just tapped twice on the side of my watch. Camille took that as surrender and leaned down, close enough that I could smell her perfume. “Aw, sweetie. Did the big scary lady make you freeze? Let me help.” She grabbed the handles of my chair and shoved. Rook lunged, teeth bared, stopping half an inch from her wrist on my whispered command. She shrieked, stumbling back into her assistant, mascara already running. “That thing attacked me! I want him arrested! Do you know who my father is?!” That was when the street went quiet in a way expensive streets never do. Six matte-black SUVs rolled up the circular drive in perfect spacing and stopped, blocking her Bentley in on all sides. Doors opened in unison. Fourteen men and women in dark suits stepped out, earpieces glinting, and formed a corridor from the curb to my chair. The lead agent, a tall woman with silver at her temples, walked straight past Camille without a glance, knelt beside me, and pressed a folded pocket square into my hand for my face. “Sir. We heard the tone. Are you injured?” Camille’s laugh cracked. “Sir? Him? He’s nobody, he’s — he’s just some — ” Her father’s black car pulled up behind the SUVs; he’d been called from the board meeting on the top floor. He climbed out, saw the agents, saw me, and the color drained from his face so fast his assistant had to catch his elbow. He didn’t look at his daughter. He looked at me, and he bowed his head. “General Vance. I am so sorry. You have my full cooperation.” Camille’s glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the marble. She finally read the small silver pin on my hoodie collar — the one Rook had been resting against the whole time. Her mouth opened. No sound came out. The lead agent stood, turned to Camille for the first time, and said very softly, “Ma’am. Please keep your hands where I can see them.”