Not police.
Not neighbors.
I stopped twenty yards away and watched.
The passenger door opened.
A man stepped out wearing a charcoal coat, no tie, polished shoes. He looked about forty-five, clean-shaven, with the relaxed posture of someone accustomed to making other people nervous.
He lifted one hand in greeting.
My phone rang.
The same unknown number.
This time, I answered.
“Mr. Reeves,” the man by the SUV said, his voice echoing through my phone and across the driveway. “My name is Victor Hale.”
“Halden Private Group?” I asked.
“A related office.”
“That sounds intentionally vague.”
“It is.”
I stayed in my car. “You’re trespassing.”
“We’re outside your gate.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“We’re introducing ourselves.”
Behind me, another vehicle turned into the drive.
A white pickup.
Security.
Two retired officers Martin had used before. I recognized one, a broad man named Santos.
Victor Hale los miró, luego sonrió ligeramente.
