Friday, 11:15 PM. Dupont Circle.
I sat in the back of the blacked-out SUV, the burner phone pressed to my ear. The line rang twice before it was picked up.
"Vance," a gruff, authoritative voice answered. It was the voice of a man used to giving orders that resulted in people dying.
"General Thomas Vance," I said, my voice smooth, projecting the passive Authority aura even over the cellular connection. "I apologize for interrupting your poker game. I know Harrison Croft hates it when people use their phones at the table."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. The background noise—the clinking of chips, the low murmur of conversation—suddenly vanished as the General likely stepped away from the table and into a quiet hallway.
"Who is this?" Vance demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, military whisper. "This is a secure, unlisted number. How did you get it?"
