"Hey!" Samuels bellowed, his voice a harsh, gravelly bark that echoed off the glass facade of the headquarters. He marched forward, his hand resting instinctively on the butt of his sidearm. "Hell, back away from this building! You can't park that glorified taxi here. Move it!"
Marcus stopped. He turned slowly, his dark eyes locking onto the red, aggressive face of the officer storming toward him. He didn't flinch. He didn't step back.
"The vehicle is leaving, Officer," Marcus said. His voice was a rich, resonant baritone, quiet but carrying a density that demanded immediate attention. "I am here on business."
"I don't care if you're here to buy the Brooklyn Bridge!" Samuels roared, closing the distance until he was inches from Marcus. The officer's face was flushed a dangerous crimson, the veins in his neck bulging against the tight collar of his uniform. "This is a restricted zone! You turn around, get back in that car, and get the hell off my perimeter before I lock you up for obstructing a government facility!"
Marcus looked down at the shorter, heavier man. He noted the unpolished boots, the strained buttons of the uniform, the smell of stale tobacco, and the blind, unearned arrogance in the man's eyes.
"You should think very carefully about what you do next," Marcus said softly, raising his right hand and pointing a single, steady index finger toward the officer's chest.
The calm warning was the equivalent of throwing gasoline onto a grease fire.
In Samuels' world, civilians did not issue warnings. Civilians bowed. They apologized. They retreated. The absolute defiance in the silver-suited man's eyes shattered the officer's fragile ego. Rational thought abandoned him entirely, replaced by a violent, primal urge to reestablish his dominance.