The night was quiet by the time Alex returned home, but the storm hadn't left him.
Rain still clung to the edges of his coat as he stepped into the house. The air inside was warm and still too still. He loosened his first two button of his shirt, his movements deliberate, restrained, as if the control in his gestures could make up for the chaos outside.
He had left men stationed near the outskirts, others tracking any trace of Victor's path. Yet, beneath all the reports, all the procedures, he felt that sickening certainty in his gut, Victor wasn't running. He was circling. Waiting.
And Alex hated waiting.
"Sir?" James's voice came softly through the comm line in his earpiece.
He didn't answer immediately. He stood near the entry table, one hand resting against its edge, his eyes tracing the faint reflection of himself in the mirror.
"Report," he said finally.
