I didn't rush.
The man with the 9mm kept the barrel steady, but his wrist tensed slightly. It was subtle.
Not panic, just pressure building under stillness. That meant something was off in his timing. He expected us to be on the floor already.
Luther moved half a step closer to the sink. His hand hovered near the drawer.
"Don't," I said, without looking at him.
He stopped.
The one with the tranq gun adjusted his grip. I could hear the soft whine of the pressurized cartridge.
Still armed.
Still waiting for a clean shot.
Their helmets tilted just slightly, tracking my movement. They were disciplined. I'd seen worse.
But they weren't local. That much was clear.
Their weight distribution was wrong for this flooring. Probably trained on military tile, not uneven house-grade ceramic.
They didn't account for the wet detergent on the floor. That would cost them.
"You're not cops," I said.
No answer.
"Not private security either. Those guys usually knock."
Still nothing.
