No one answered.

I moved toward the inner office, where a thin strip of light spilled onto the carpet.

The light was on inside, illuminating a desk of dark mahogany.

A man was sitting behind the desk, his hands folded over a thick manila folder.

It wasn’t Dr. Reeves.

It was Brandon Prescott.

He wore a tailored wool coat, dry and immaculate despite the storm outside.

He looked up at me and smiled, his eyes cold and calculating under the harsh light.

“Colonel Hart,” Brandon said, his voice smooth and entirely too calm. “I figured you wouldn’t be far behind.”

“Where is Dr. Reeves?” I asked, keeping my gun raised and pointed at his chest.

Brandon raised his hands in a slow, non-threatening gesture.

“He’s safe,” Brandon said. “I had my associates escort him to a quiet room downstairs.”

“I heard them breaking the door down over the phone, Brandon. Don’t lie to me.”

“A necessary theatrical touch,” he said, leaning back in the leather chair. “I needed to get your attention before my mother’s people got to him.”