We haven't heard from Alex in a while. We are running short on time, and we aren't close enough to finding that bitch." Vincent says, noticeably concerned. His large eyebrows furrow together, showing his old age and revealing his unease.

The room is dimly lit by candles and lanterns affixed to the walls. Most of the light comes from the two dozen computers and laptops that surround a team of men in the center of the massive room. There are endless rows of bookshelves fading into the darkness, lit periodically by a lantern held by one of the men running in between the shelves. Vincent stands on a balcony overlooking the men and the elaborate ceramic floor beneath them.

"So, we didn’t have tracking on him?" A man, younger in his years, asks incredulously as he carefully places both hands against the cement table in front of them. His doubt is painfully reflected in the eyes of all six men that surround the large table.

"How many times must I say this? No. He is part of the first family. We didn’t think we needed it." Another man with glasses joins in the conversation. He sits almost stoic in front of the computer monitor; except, his fingers move ferociously over the keyboard.

"They are reviewing his journals—the ones he actually sent. We must keep this quiet, though. Analise can't find out yet—not until we have her. The implications could be great. We need her alive. Word of a search does not leave this room." Vincent speaks calmly, but everyone can see the intensity in his eyes. He falls slowly into his chair and lets out a disconcerting sigh. “We have Garrett on it. He will find them.”

"That screw-up? If it weren’t for him she would have been ours years ago. He will surely kill her." One of the six yells.

Vincent lights a cigar he pulls from a drawer. "No. He won't. He understands the implications."

Each man knows how imperative it is to find Alex and the Analise—their existence depends on it.