Sunday, 10:00 PM. The Georgetown Townhouse.
The study was dark, illuminated only by the glow of Nia's monitors and the tactical map of Washington D.C. spread across the mahogany desk.
Darius was cleaning his suppressed pistol, the metallic snick-clack of the slide echoing in the quiet room. Ethan was sitting on the sofa, nursing a black coffee, looking unusually serious. The reality of the shooting war had finally pierced his charming, carefree exterior.
"Harrison Croft doesn't have a weakness," Nia said, rubbing her eyes, staring at the dossier she had compiled on the Senator's Chief of Staff. "He has no family, no debts, no vices. He lives in a highly secure, brutalist apartment building in Navy Yard. It's basically a concrete bunker with a concierge. He doesn't go to parties unless he's working security for Hale. He doesn't drink. He doesn't sleep."
"Everyone sleeps, Nia," I said, leaning over the tactical map. "And everyone has a blind spot."
