Draven.
I stood in front of my floor-to-ceiling window with my arms behind my back, gazing at the greenery. For some reason, the weather smelled sharper today.
The fake team had just finished their second meeting. Jeffery had fed them a report this morning, thick with redacted leads and harmless speculation. Every piece was polished and pointed in a safe direction, deliberately five steps behind.
Dennis's real team, however, was already in motion.
"Brother," came Dennis's voice from behind me.
I slowly turned. I hadn't heard him enter.
He stood at the door, his hands on his waist. He looked annoyed. Not frustrated—annoyed. The kind of quiet displeasure he reserved for people he found beneath his patience.
"You are back early," I said, walking over to sit behind my desk.
"Because your wife couldn't enjoy the shopping in peace and wanted to come home," he explained, already pulling out one of the seats before my desk.
