Rain pummeled him, and he had to wipe his eyes to see better. Was that Quan? Angus could make out dark hair. He forced himself to breathe evenly while reaching for the handle. The door, high quality and heavy, slid open easily.

Keeping low, he pushed inside and shut out the rain. The room appeared to be a kitchen nook, with a round table and high chairs, flanked by twin hutches holding pale pink and blue dishes. He listened and could only hear the rain. So he moved forward, dropped to his haunches, and leaned over to see better in the semidarkness of the cloudy day. It was Quan; his eyes were closed and blood flowed from his forehead.

Angus felt for a pulse. It was steady and weak. The man was alive.

Where the hell was HDD? The agents should already be there.

Angus reached for his phone to call for an ambulance. Dead. He shook it. Jammed? Had somebody jammed all electronics? That would explain the malfunctioning gate.

He shoved his phone back in place and leaned over in case Quan could hear him. “I’ll be back. Just hold on. Also, sorry I suspected you of being tied to Lassiter.” He stood and walked silently out of the breakfast nook, through a sparkling-clean kitchen to a living room that looked out to the rainy porch.

Silence ticked around him, heavy with warning. He followed a hallway to the left and cleared a spacious office, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. Nothing.

Yet instinct propelled him to stay silent and not call out for Opal. He turned back the other way and cleared another bathroom, an exercise room, and a laundry. That left the closed French doors of what must be the master bedroom. He took a deep breath, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t find Opal Clemonte dead in there.

Then he opened the door and walked inside. The bedroom was wide, with white furniture and a king-size bed covered with a purple bedspread. Perfectly made. His shoulders relaxed and he cleared the closet and bathroom before walking back out. All right. Was there a panic room? If so, how the hell would he find it? For now, he had to get Quan medical attention.

He returned to the living room, where Opal now stood near the fireplace, a gun in her hand and a bandage around her injured arm. She was facing out the windows, tracking something with her eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked, keeping his voice low and looking for the threat.

“No.” She turned to face him. Fire lanced from her eyes and she looked every inch the powerful operative she was, even in her light-green linen pants and matching sweater.

He shook his head. “Where’s the threat?” he whispered, edging toward the sliding glass door.

“Right here.” She lifted her gun and pointed it at his head.

He paused. “What the hell are you doing?’