“Wait,” he breathed.

A man stepped out from behind a stack of timber.

He was wearing a damp wool coat, the collar turned up against the cold.

He held a heavy pistol, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.

But as he stepped into the bright circle of the halogen light, the breath caught in my throat.

It was not Sinclair.

The man pulled down his collar, revealing the jagged scar along his jawline.

“Victor,” Lucian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that echoed in the rafters.

His own security chief did not blink.

Victor looked at us, his face completely devoid of the loyalty he had feigned for years.

“You should have stayed in the car, Lucian,” Victor said, his voice flat.

“You,” Lucian said, stepping out of the shadows, his gun pointed directly at Victor’s chest. “You were my sister’s guard the night she died.”

Victor let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.

“I was,” Victor said. “And she was far too smart for her own good, just like you.”