The kind of woman who’d make me look twice in a bar, worth crossing a crowded room to buy drinks for. On paper, she’s everything I avoid—another academic with soft hands and too many questions. But this photo? Prime fucking material. I can see it perfectly—cornering her in some bar bathroom, lifting her onto the sink, those intellectual eyes going wide when she realizes I’m not asking permission. Hands tangled in thatauburn hair, fucking her against cold tile until all those fancy words disappear, until that clever mouth can’t form theories or questions, just my name. Maybe not even that. Pure physical connection where her PhD means nothing and she’s just soft skin, all need and heat.
No names. No history. No future.
Perfect relationship material if relationships involved nothing beyond fucking and mutual orgasms.
Unfortunately, this assignment requires keeping her alive, not keeping her quiet through more enjoyable methods.
My phone buzzes with updated intelligence from Mason. Phoenix is moving fast on this one. Its Obsidian protocol means complete elimination—no witnesses, no evidence, no survivors. Phoenix will have already identified her contacts, mapped her routines, and isolated her from any support networks. Standard Phoenix tactics since Ryan and Celeste—systematic, thorough, lethal.
A storm system forces our flight path north, adding forty minutes. We finally touch down at Reagan National at 2237 hours.
If she’s still alive, it’s a miracle.
Rental car paperwork. Agonizing bureaucracy. Insurance options. GPS upgrades. Fuel packages. Each declining second potentially costs her life. Finally mobile at 2308 hours, I navigate D.C.’s familiar streets toward Columbia Heights. The city smells of rain and exhaust, monuments lit against darkness like beacons of democracy Phoenix seeks to undermine.
The safe house remains undisturbed. Electronic locks untriggered. Dust patterns confirm no recent entry. The weapons cache provides essential upgrades—body armor, additional magazines, tactical communications gear, and night vision equipment. The familiar weight of proper armament settles across my frame.
2341 hours when I finally approach Georgetown University.
The medieval architecture appears exactly as remembered—historic buildings cramped together, insufficient parking, narrow streets designed before automobiles existed. Stone walls still radiating the day’s heat into the cool October night. Student laughter carries from nearby bars, the normal sounds of university life proceeding while death hunts one of their professors.
Dr. Wren’s office location—Healy Hall, third floor, Linguistics department—glows with light despite the late hour.
Still working.
Still alive.
She remains visible through her office windows, silhouette bent over her desk, completely absorbed in her work. A perfect target for anyone with long-range capabilities. Any operator with basic training would have closed those blinds, varied their routine, and maintained some situational awareness. However, academics tend to think in theoretical terms rather than physical ones.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Black SUV. Government plates. Three occupants proceeding slowly toward the building. Not university security. Not local law enforcement. Professional operators conducting reconnaissance.
The Phoenix advance team.
Encrypted line to Mason. “Phoenix on site. Three operators. Advance reconnaissance. Target still in her office.”
“Copy. Do what you must. Keep her alive.”
The SUV completes its circuit—taking note of security cameras, patrol routes, and civilian patterns. Professional assessment before the strike. They’ll return with a full tactical team once reconnaissance confirms the target location and optimal approach vectors.
Standard military planning adapted for assassination.
Nine operators for one academic?
No sniper taking position for a clean shot through those wide-open windows? They’re moving for breach and clear,not elimination. From 200 meters, I could put a round through her temple before she finished typing her next sentence. Any competent marksman could. Phoenix has competent marksmen.
Which means they need her alive. At least initially.
Information extraction. They want to know what she found, who she told, and where the evidence is stored. Then they’ll kill her and make it look accidental. Another professor having a mental breakdown. Suicide by hanging, maybe. Or prescription overdose. Something that fits the narrative of an overworked academic who stumbled onto something that terrified her.
Changes the tactical situation completely. They’ll use non-lethal methods—tasers, tranquilizers, physical restraint. Gives me an advantage. They’re planning for capture. I’m planning for war.
At 2345 hours, the situation escalates dramatically. The black SUV returns, accompanied by two additional vehicles. Nine operators deploy with the kind of professional equipment that means business. A full Phoenix tactical team assembling for Obsidian protocol implementation. Dr. Eliza Wren has approximately ten minutes to live unless I intervene now.
I run through my equipment one final time: sidearm, tactical knife, communications gear, medical supplies. It’s insufficient firepower for a sustained engagement against nine operators, but adequate for an extraction if I prioritize speed over confrontation.
The team establishes its perimeter. Two operators cover the main entrance, while another pair takes care of the service corridors. One maintains overwatch from across the quad. The remaining four prepare for entry, stacking up exactly as trained. It’s textbook deployment for eliminating an isolated target who has no idea death is climbing her stairs.
Time to move.
