His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he watched the loop of the video play again.

“Marcus,” Alexander said, his voice barely a whisper against the cold night wind.

“He was supposed to be in Chicago,” I said.

“He never left,” Alexander replied.

The black sedan outside the gate remained still, its engine a low, wet rumble in the damp air.

The headlights flickered again.

One long flash, followed by two short ones.

“He is waiting for a response,” Alexander said, reaching into his pocket for his own radio.

“Who is he signaling, sir?” I asked.

He did not answer me immediately.

He pressed the button on his transmitter.

“Security team, we have a breach at the southern gate,” Alexander spoke clearly into the device.

“Do not engage yet,” he added. “Surround the vehicle from the tree line.”

A static hiss was his only reply before a voice confirmed the order.

“Understood, Mr. Hawthorne.”

Alexander turned to me, his hand resting on the iron latch of the small side gate.

“Stay here, Elena,” he said.

“No,” I said, stepping closer to him.