Neal stays with the bag held out in one hand, confused, anxiety growing as he mentally ticks down their available seconds until the guards see their handiwork.

Keller tugs the trash bag out of Neal’s hand and jams his guard uniform into it, then drops it at Malcolm’s feet. “I’m hurt, Whitly.”

“Don’t call him that,” Neal snaps, chest squeezed and throat tight.

Keller raises an eyebrow in Neal’s direction and pulls a gun from the back band of his pants, raising the thing to level it at Malcolm’s head. Neal makes a strangled noise and gets between the two of them, hands up like somehow that will keep Keller from pulling the trigger.

“Move, Caffrey.”

“What are you doing?”

“I said move.”