“Here it is,” Bryn said, stopping outside a solid wood door just around the corner from the elevator.
“Guns and badges?” Matt asked.
Jake shook his head. “These guys pack pocket protectors, not guns.”
Bryn hesitated, then nodded her agreement, but she kept her hand on her weapon.
“Ollie Smith’s death might have changed that.” Matt stepped to one side of doorjamb with his hand also on his gun.
Jake took the other side, then knocked on the door. “Might already be an empty hole—” He stopped at the sound of movement from inside. Someone fumbled with the lock, then the door opened a crack, the safely chain still on. A young, scared face peered out.
“Yes?”
“I’m Jake Kirby, U.S. Marshals Service.” He held up his badge, shifting his weight to put his shoulder against the door, a precaution
