Chapter 2: What She Was Holding
PART 2 ⬇️
Mercer snatched my registration and stared at it like the paper had personally offended him.
"This is forged," he said flatly.
"It isn't."
"I say it is."
Cross shifted his weight behind him.
I saw it.
Mercer didn't.
Then Mercer dropped the registration on the ground.
Deliberately.
Right onto the asphalt, face down.
The crowd had grown.
I counted at least nineteen phones still recording.
An older man near the curb shook his head slowly.
A young woman in scrubs had both hands pressed over her mouth.
Mercer stepped closer.
"Last chance.
Tell me whose car this really is, or I call a tow and we do this downtown."
I looked down at my registration on the ground.
Then back up at him.
"Pick that up," I said quietly.
He blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Pick.
It.
Up."
Something shifted in his face.
Not guilt.
Not yet.
Something closer to the moment a man realizes the room isn't arranged the way he thought it was.
That's when my phone buzzed once against my palm.
The Atlanta field office had heard everything.
I reached slowly beneath my waistband.
Mercer's hand moved toward his belt.
And Cross said, very quietly — "Wade.
Stop."
Mercer froze.
"What?"
Cross was staring at my waist.
His face had gone completely pale.
"Wade," he said again.
"Look at what she's holding."
---
What Mercer saw in that moment changed everything — and what he did next made it so much worse.
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