Maddox's jaw shifted. "You calling me a liar?"
"I'm saying there isn't anything there."
Nyla could feel the direction of the conversation changing. Maddox was not seeking an answer. He was seeking a particular response to an insult he had just arranged.
"We can provide the documents," she said. "Please let us know how you'd like us to retrieve them safely."
He looked at her blazer, her watch, the quiet interior of the Range Rover, and then at her face. "People like you come through here thinking you can talk your way out of everything. You ain't in Atlanta anymore."
"We haven't asked to be excused from anything," Nyla said.
"Then quit arguing."
Dominic kept his hands resting at the top of the wheel. On the operations channel, his phone emitted a soft notification from the console. He did not look down. He had already decided that no object inside the vehicle was worth the risk of appearing to reach without permission.
"Officer," he said, "my wallet is in my back pocket. May I retrieve it?"
Maddox stepped back half a pace, as if the question itself were suspicious. "Slow."
Dominic lifted his right hand from the wheel. He moved it toward his hip at the careful speed he used when teaching new agents how small motions could be misread during high-stress encounters.
"Hands!" Maddox shouted.
The change in volume was violent. A woman leaving the church office paused in the doorway across the street. Dominic stopped instantly, his hand hovering above the seat.
"Both hands on the wheel," Maddox barked. "Now."
Dominic complied. "You told me I could retrieve my wallet."
"I don't know what you're reaching for."
"I told you what I was reaching for."
Maddox's fingers closed around the grip of his holstered pistol. "Don't get smart with me, boy."