Then the convoy entered.

Adrian’s men moved into position, but Marcus raised a hand. Whoever controlled those cars had just opened one of the most secure gates in northern New Jersey without damaging a single system.

Threatening them would have been theater.

The lead Rolls-Royce stopped beside Lena. A silver-haired man stepped out — late fifties, broad-shouldered, composed, with the posture of a man who had spent decades entering rooms where other people waited for permission to breathe.

He walked to Lena and lowered his head.

“Ms. Marlowe. Your family sends its respect.”