Voss opened the door.
The hallway was already full.
Not crowded. Not moving. Just occupied in a way that made the air feel heavier than it should have been.
Every man there looked up at once.
Sarge stood closest to the door. He had positioned himself slightly to the side of it, shoulders against the wall, arms folded across his chest. He looked like he had been standing there for a long time. His posture said patience. His eyes said something else.
Marx leaned against the opposite wall with one boot braced behind him, arms crossed low over his stomach. His gaze flicked immediately to Felicity in Voss's arms, then back to Voss's face like he had forced it there.
Sam stood beside him, rubbing the back of his neck slowly.
Pope waited near the stairs, hands clasped behind his back like an executioner who had misplaced his weapon.
Tommy sat on the floor.
Actually sat.
