The buzzer went off. He pushed open the heavy door and strode into the office. Despite it being way past midnight, at least half of those who worked there milled around. Their team and two others shared the floor, one of whom was in and prepping for an early-morning raid. Wyatt sat behind his desk, peering intently at the screen on his computer. Parker hung his coat on the back of his chair. “Did you lose your reading glasses again?” Wyatt shot Parker a disgusted look that only made him laugh. They were all late thirties, and Wyatt bemoaned—constantly—the fact he’d been prescribed glasses for his headaches instead of less paperwork and more fieldwork. Wyatt clicked his mouse. “Paperwork on the detainee is done. I put in a request for some background on him, but we likely won’t know who he is until we run his prints. Even then, given his accent, we may be looking at Homeland Security or Interpol.
