Sarah stepped into a foyer that belonged in a museum. Polished hardwood floors gleamed under a crystal chandelier. Persian rugs that probably cost more than her annual salary. Oil paintings in gilded frames—actual oil paintings, not prints. Even at this pre-dawn hour, fresh flowers rose proudly in a Waterford vase on an antique console table.
"This is your safe house?" The words escaped before Sarah could stop them.
"This is my home. The safe house aspects are... subtle." Doc slipped off her pearls and set them in a silver dish as casually as if she'd returned from the opera, not a high-speed chase. "My neighbors think I'm a retired economics professor with a passion for horticulture and lobster rolls. Which is entirely true, if incomplete."
Even Griff seemed momentarily thrown by the sheer normalcy of wealth on display. He paused by the French doors leading to a terrace, studying the gardens beyond. "Motion sensors in the rose beds. Cameras in the bird houses?"
"Among other things." Doc’s light eyes twinkled. "The previous owner was CIA Station Chief for Eastern Europe. Paranoid man, excellent taste. I kept both qualities when I bought the place."
Sarah noticed how Griff catalogued every detail—exits disguised as garden doors, windows with the subtle thickness of bulletproof glass, mirrors positioned to eliminate blind spots. Security hidden beneath Southern gentility.
"Your neighbors don't question the late-night arrivals?" Griff asked.
"My neighbors include a former NSA director, two retired generals, and someone who definitely wasn't simply a 'cultural attaché' in Moscow." Doc smiled. "McLean is where spies go to retire. We mind our own business professionally."
The tour endedin a kitchen straight out of a glossy magazine spread—marble counters, copper pots catching the early light, an oven big enough to roast an elk. Doc slid a decorative bread box aside to reveal a full trauma kit.
“Griffin,stop bleeding on my Persian rug. Sarah, dear, help me get him patched before he ruins my flooring.”
“Shirt off,”Doc ordered. Her gaze lingered on his swollen eyes. “And what happened there? Wrestling with a fire extinguisher?” Her tone was airy, but the sharp look beneath it said she’d already cataloged every injury.
Griff shot Sarah a look and shrugged with his good shoulder. “Close,” was all he said. “Story for another time.”
“Indeed.” Doc raised one perfect gray eyebrow.
Griff peeled the fabric back without complaint. Sarah tried not to stare, but the scars told their own story—years of violence written across his chest and shoulders, every line proof he shouldn’t still be alive. The fresh graze almost looked trivial compared to the rest.
“You’relucky it missed anything vital,” Doc said briskly, cleaning with efficiency.
“I’m always lucky,”Griff muttered.
“I’m notsure I want to know what you’d consider ill, luck, young man.” Doc thrust gauze into Sarah’s hands. “Hold this.”
Sarah pressed against the wound,her fingers brushing his. He went still—not from pain, but from something else she didn’t dare name. She whispered, “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“This.All of it. If I hadn’t?—”
“Then you’d be dead,”Griff said flatly. “And Stillwater would keep killing.”
Doc finishedthe bandage with a tidy wrap. “Keep it dry for forty-eight hours. And do try not to get shot again in the meantime.”
Griff huffed.“I’ll pencil it in.”
Once she fed them, Doc led them down to what she called her basement, though Sarah suspected the CIA would envy it. Rows of monitors blinked awake. Maps and satellite feeds filled an entire wall. A weapons locker big enough to arm a platoon stood open, gleaming with dark steel.
“I thought you retired a decade ago,”Sarah said faintly.
“A vicious rumor.Some people garden. I dismantle criminal enterprises.” Doc slid behind a console.
Sarah inserted the flash drive,the familiar comfort of code grounding her as she began the upload.While she waited, Griff and Doc bent over a tactical map, trading shorthand in a language she didn’t understand.
“Primary exfil routesare compromised if they know she accessed?—”
“Secondary targets include anyone who—”
“Clean assets only, no traceable—”
