Ryan and Mateo sat in the Impala across the street from Ian Brandt’s estate, which was nestled in a wooded setting a few blocks from the Governor’s Mansion. The house was typical of the residences here—a gracefully aged, Tudor-style mansion with impressive stonework and veils of climbing ivy. An iron gate closed off the driveway and property. Ryan checked his watch. Based on the information from Brandt’s receptionist, it had been a relatively simple matter to check Hartsfield-Jackson’s flight schedule and estimate his return. “Strong turnout for Boyce’s funeral this morning,” Mateo noted above the AC’s drone. “He was highly thought of.” Ryan grunted an agreement, his eyes remaining on the house as he searched for some sign of life inside it. “Six commendations. That’s a lot for a kid his age.” “He wasn’t exactly a kid. He was what? Six years younger than us?”
