A face fills the screen. A glitched, distorted close-up of a man’s eyes. Dead. Pale.
Perez stares at it. The wind outside rises to a howl. Somewhere deep in the building, a door slams.
We should get a team.
Jimmy. The tapes from the bag. The one on top. It had a label.
You’ve been following him?
Low. Rhythmic.
Perez stands near the ruins of the old RAF station. The wind is brutal. Tosh is beside him, phone pressed to her ear.