The Dupont Circle Metro entrance appears ahead—concrete steps leading down into D.C.’s underground transit system. Red line, blue line, orange line—multiple options for routing, multiple opportunities to lose pursuit through random direction changes.
“I’ve never taken the Metro,” Dr. Wren says as we approach the entrance.
I stop walking and stare at her. “You’ve never taken the Metro? You live in D.C. Everyone takes the Metro.”
“I live in a brownstone near Georgetown. I walk when I can, drive when I need to. I like being outside, not underground in crowds and tunnels.”
I shake my head. “That’s weird.”
“It’s not weird, it’s a preference.”
“First time for everything.”
“What if I don’t know how to?—”
“Follow my lead. Stay close. Do what I say when I say it.”
The steps descend into the familiar underground world of D.C.’s subway system. Tile walls stretch in long corridors, fluorescent lighting casting everything in harsh white. The smell hits immediately—recycled air, cleaning chemicals, the faint odor of too many people in enclosed spaces.
Dr. Wren’s hand tightens in mine as we navigate the corridors. Smart woman—underground spaces feel different when people are hunting you. More confined. Limited escape routes.
“How do you know which train to take?” sheasks.
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Random routing. Harder to predict.”
The platform opens up before us—two tracks, multiple destinations. Orange line toward Vienna, blue line toward Franconia. I scan the electronic displays, calculating timing and crowd density.
The orange line arrives first. There is a moderate crowd, enough people to provide cover without creating mobility problems. I make the random choice and we head that way.
“This one,” I say, guiding her toward the train doors.
We board with the usual rush of commuters. I position Dr. Wren against the far wall and stand facing her, my body creating a visual barrier between her and the other passengers. The position puts her pressed against my chest, and I can feel every breath she takes.
“Why are you standing so close?” she whispers.
“Surveillance screening.”
“This feels like?—”
“Like, what?”
Color floods her cheeks. “Nothing.”
I lean in and whisper in her ear. “Sorry, love. You only get the kisses when people are actually trying to find us.”
She jerks back from me, eyes wide. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
The train pulls away from the platform, and I scan the other passengers. Business suits, tourists with cameras, and a few college students. No obvious threats, but Phoenix operatives blend in. Professional training teaches them to look like everyone else.
