“No.” Carl shook his head. Under the UNGLA mandate, he could in theory have commandeered the helicopter anyway. In theory. “You’ll give the gun and the license back to me yourself, right now.”

“I beg your—”

“The Haag pistol is UNGLA property. It’s illegal for anyone unauthorized to be in possession of one. Go and get it.”

Bailey’s leg stopped swinging. He met Carl’s gaze for a moment, presumably saw what was there, and cleared his throat. He nodded at one of the security guards, visibly reading his name off the lettering on the breast pocket of his uniform.

“Ah, Sanchez. Go and fetch Mr. Marsalis’s personal effects.”

The security guard turned to leave.

“No.” Carl peeled Sanchez a glance and watched him stop with his hand on the door. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He looked back at the director. “I said you go and get it for me.”

Bailey flushed. He came off the edge of the desk. “Listen to me, Marsalis, you don’t—”

Carl closed one painfully fizzing fist up with the other hand. He grimaced. The director’s voice dried up.

“You go and get it for me,” Carl repeated softly.

The moment held, and popped. Still flushing to the roots of his carefully styled hair, Bailey shouldered past and opened the door.

“You watch him,” he snapped at the security guards, and stalked out. Carl saw a grin slip between the two men. He rubbed at his fist some more, shifted to the other hand.

“So which of you two humanitarians spotted me with the cuffmelt?”

The grin vanished into hostile watchfulness and a stiff silence that lasted until Bailey came back with his stuff and the paperwork to match.