The third-floor corridor of the FBI’s New York Field Office was a study in bureaucratic beige. Nathan’s dress shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he searched for the door to “The Quiet Room.” He found it at the end of a dead-end hall, unmarked save for a small, laminated card taped at eye level that read, in faded typewriter font: M.B.D. – Authorized Personnel Only.

He took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was indeed neither quiet nor a room. It was a vast, open-plan space buzzing with low conversation and the hum of computer servers. Desks were arranged in chaotic clusters, piled high with file boxes and obsolete monitors. The air smelled of stale coffee and ozone. And standing in the middle of it all, leaning against a desk with the casual authority of a man who owned the floor, was a man who could only be related to Marcus Copeland.

He had the same sharp jaw and imposing build, but where Marcus was polished granite, this man was worn leather. He was dressed in a stylish, dark grey sweater and slacks, and he was talking animatedly on an old rotary-dial phone, his voice a rich, smooth baritone with a distinct, flowing Black American accent that carried warmth and command in equal measure.

“Yeah, baby, tell him his uncle Kev said it’s a bad investment. A fool’s investment. He wants to lose his sneaker money, that’s on him.” He glanced up as Nathan hovered by the door, and his expression shifted from familial exasperation to professional assessment. “Gotta go. Duty calls.” He hung up the heavy receiver with a clatter.

“Nathan Summers,” the man said, not as a question. He extended a hand. “Kevin Copeland. Marcus’s lesser-known, better-dressed, and significantly more pleasant brother. Welcome to the M.B.D. Mission Briefing Department. We do the thinking so field agents don’t have to bleed.”

Nathan shook his hand, the grip firm and dry. “Sir. I was told to report here.”

“I know what you were told,” Kevin said, gesturing for Nathan to take the lone chair opposite the desk. He remained standing, pacing slightly. “My brother has the interpersonal skills of a cornered wolverine. Don’t take it personal. He sees a kid with your scores, he sees a problem. I see an opportunity.” He fixed Nathan with a keen look. “You’re on probation. This is your test. …