My approach through the campus landscaping providesconcealment until the final fifty meters. The smell of freshly cut grass mingles with the crisp, damp air of autumn leaves on the October night. Phoenix operators cover all ground-level entrances. Vertical infiltration becomes my only option.
Gothic architecture favors climbers—decorative stonework creates natural handholds, window ledges offer footholds, and architectural flourishes provide grip that modern buildings lack. The north face offers a drainage pipe running past a second-floor balcony, continuing to a third-floor window that maintenance, no doubt, never remembers to lock.
My old D.C. knowledge is paying dividends tonight.
The pipe holds my weight easily, decades of paint and rust providing unexpected grip. I climb hand over hand, using window ledges as foot placements. It’s twenty feet to the second-floor balcony, another fifteen to the third-floor window.
Child’s play compared to Afghan cliff faces.
The window slides open with barely a whisper—predictable negligence from maintenance. Inside, I find a darkened classroom with chairs stacked for cleaning, the smell of chalk dust and old books heavy in the air.
Sound carries strangely in these old buildings. The Phoenix team ascends the main stairwell two floors below, their tactical boots creating distinctive echoes on the stone steps. They’re making no attempt at stealth.
Cocky bastards.
The third-floor corridor stretches ahead under harsh fluorescent lights. Dr. Wren’s door is closed, but a thin line of light bleeds beneath it. No sounds emerge from within—no typing, no talking, nothing.
Too quiet. Either she left, or she’s hiding.
Phoenix reaches the second floor. Their boots echo in the stairwell, getting closer. Ninety seconds until they reach this level.
I test the doorknob. Locked. These old locks are moresuggestion than security—a quick manipulation with my knife and the mechanism clicks open.
The office door swings inward silently, revealing the expected chaos—books stacked like defensive fortifications, papers scattered across every surface, three computer monitors still glowing with data streams. The air carries the smell of cold coffee and vanilla perfume. The desk chair sits empty, pushed back from the keyboard.
But she’s here. The faint sound of panicked breathing comes from beneath the desk, rapid and shallow.
She’s hiding as if ducking under furniture will stop professional killers.
Phoenix footsteps on the stairs. Sixty seconds.
I reach under the desk, my hand finding fabric.
I pull.
She comes out swinging, a wild haymaker catching my jaw with surprising force. Pure panic drives her fists as she fights for her life.
“No no no no?—”
My hand covers her mouth, cutting off the stream of negatives. Her eyes go wide behind those glasses, green like sea glass, tears starting to form.
“Cerberus Security.” The words are quick, quiet, and whispered directly into her ear. “Morrison sent me.”
Recognition flickers through the panic. Not Phoenix. Rescue. Her body stops fighting and goes limp, nearly dropping to the floor.
I catch her, steadying her against my chest. She’s soft against the tactical vest, and that vanilla scent is stronger up close. Fuck.
Focus. Mission first.
“Can you run?”
She nods against my hand.
“Stay quiet. Move when I move. Stop when I stop. Understand?”
Another nod. I release her mouth.
“Thank God, I thought—Morrison said someone was coming but—are you really—who are you?—”
