The two black Suburbans were parked exactly where I had left them.

I parked my sedan next to them and turned off the engine.

The silence of the cabin was sudden and heavy.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, checked the service weapon in my holster, and stepped out into the damp air.

The smell of wet pine needles and expensive mulch filled my nose.

I walked over to the second Suburban.

A young counterintelligence agent stood by the rear door, his hand resting on his holster.

He nodded to me as I approached.

“He’s inside, ma’am,” the agent said. “He kept his word. He didn’t try to run.”

I opened the heavy door of the SUV.

Grant was sitting on the leather bench seat, his head buried in his hands.

His expensive tailored suit jacket was wrinkled, and his tie was loosened at his collar.

He looked up when the cool air hit him.

His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a dark bruise forming near his temple where he had been restrained earlier.

“Allison,” he said, moving forward.