Breathe in. Breathe out. Natural respiratory pause. Heartbeat minimal. Smooth trigger squeeze.
The rifle kicks. Thunder rolls across the waterfront. 1.2 seconds later, orange fragments explode against the sky.
Better than shooting people. Less satisfying than eliminating genuine threats. At least clay pigeons don’t require paperwork.
Phone still buzzing. Mason hates waiting.
“What?”
“Need you in D.C. Protection detail.” Mason’s voice carries that particular edge, meaning immediate deployment. “Linguistics professor. Potential Phoenix target.”
Phoenix.
The name alone spikes adrenaline. Since Ryan and Celeste’s staged deaths three months ago, Phoenix adapted. Evolved. New protocols. Enhanced surveillance. Bodies are stacking up among those investigating its operations.
My jaw clenches hard enough to crack molars. Protecting academics ranks below dental surgery on my preference scale. University types never shut up. Questions. Explanations. Theories. Endless noise compromising operational security.
“When?”
“Yesterday. Her name’s Dr. Eliza Wren. Georgetown University. Smart enough to decode something she shouldn’t have.”
Georgetown. Historic district with narrow streets designed for horses, not tactical vehicles. Medieval building layouts favoring siege defense over modern protection protocols. Tourist crowds providing both cover and complications.
Tactical nightmare.
“Threat?”
“Three researchers working on similar projects. All dead within two weeks. Morrison called from the FBI, and we’ve confirmed Phoenix activated the Obsidian protocol.”
Obsidian. Phoenix’s cleanup protocol. Professional teams. Military-grade equipment. Zero witnesses.
If Obsidian targets this professor, she has intelligence Phoenix considers existentially threatening.
“On it.”
My equipment disappears into tactical bags with movements honed through six years in Delta Force, four years with Cerberus. Weapons, surveillance gear, communications, and medical supplies. Everything needed for hostile territory deployment. The metallic smell of gun oil mingles with leather and cordite—the scent of my profession.
“Charter will pick you up at the airport. No need to mention speed is of the essence.”
And yet, Mason did mention it. Spending words like they’re going out of style.
“Copy that.”
The drive to Sea-Tac provides time for tactical planning. Time to Reagan National—about five hours. Reagan National to Georgetown—forty minutes with traffic. My old Cerberus safe house in Columbia Heights—twenty minutes from campus, stocked with heavier weapons than TSA allows.
It’s a necessary stop, which means my arrival at Georgetown will be after 2300 hours.
Dr. Eliza Wren’s file spreads across my tablet. PhD in linguistics from Harvard. Former DoD encryption specialist. Current Georgetown professor specializing in ancient cipher analysis. Published extensively on pattern recognition, historical cryptography, and evolutionary linguistics.
Intelligence suggests she stumbled across Phoenix communications while researching Roman military codes.
Her academic curiosity comes with lethal consequences.
Her photo stops me cold.
Not the expected middle-aged academic with thick glasses and gray hair. Dr. Wren appears early thirties, with shoulder-length auburn hair framing an intelligent face. Green eyes behind stylish frames. High cheekbones. Full lips. The kind of understated beauty that suggests she prioritizes intellectual pursuits over physical appearance.
Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.
