The standoff in the mall lasted for a tense, silent, and deeply awkward thirty seconds.
Sterling and his Vanguard squad had them dead to rights.
Their energy rifles were raised, their targeting lasers painting a chaotic, angry red constellation on Michael's chest.
But they didn't fire.
They couldn't.
The atrium was still filled with a handful of shell-shocked but very-much-alive civilians, all of whom now had their cell phones out, recording the entire, bizarre standoff.
Sterling, the corporate golden boy, was trapped by his own PR.
He glared at Michael, his face a mask of pure, impotent fury. He had the power to end them, but he couldn't use it. Not here. Not on camera.
He let out a low, frustrated growl, a sound like a caged tiger.
"This isn't over, stray," he snarled, his voice a low, venomous promise.
He gave a sharp, angry signal to his team.
"Withdraw," he commanded through gritted teeth.
