3:58 PM
Marco heard the shouting from the hallway.
He'd parked his car three minutes ago, grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, and was halfway to Demien's apartment when the sound reached him—young voice, male, angry, and Marco's body moved before his brain caught up because that was Demien's voice and Demien didn't shout.
He ran.
The apartment door was closed but not locked, and when he burst through it his hand was already reaching for his phone to dial emergency services, and the scene that greeted him made his agent instincts fire on all cylinders:
Demien stood near the kitchen, face flushed, fists clenched at his sides.
Five strangers—three women, two men—backed against the far wall near the couch.
All of them looking at the door, they were looking at Marco.
"Who the hell are you?" Marco's voice came out cold, in a professional tone. The tone he used with contract negotiations that went wrong. "And how did you get this address?"
