“That’s not the police,” he whispered.

I stared over his shoulder at the pixelated image on the screen.

The three SUVs crawled closer, their massive tires churning through the heavy snowdrifts.

They had no emergency lights flashing, and their headlights were dimmed to a low, yellow fog.

“Who are they, Nathan?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Julian’s people,” he said, his voice flat with sudden dread.

“He must have called them when the system locked him out.”

But then, the lead SUV stopped near the main gate.

The doors flew open.

Men in dark tactical gear stepped out into the blinding snow.

I squinted at the monitor, rubbing a circle of condensation off the glass.

They weren’t wearing civilian coats.

They had large, reflective yellow lettering across their chests and backs.

*FBI.*

Behind them, two marked state trooper vehicles crawled up the hill, their blue and red lights finally spinning, casting a wild glow across the snowbanks.

“It’s the feds,” I whispered, a breath of relief escaping my throat.

“Nathan, look at the patches.”

He stared, his mouth slightly open.