Monday, 11:55 AM. The Hart Senate Office Building.
The halls of the Senate office building were a monument to American power. High marble ceilings, polished granite floors, and heavy mahogany doors bearing the names of the men and women who ruled the country. The air smelled of expensive cologne, floor wax, and quiet desperation.
I walked through the corridors alone, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. The [Silicon Ghost] skill had easily bypassed the Capitol Police background checks at the entrance, masking my true identity and presenting me as Julian Vance, a registered foreign lobbyist.
I reached Room 214. The gold plaque on the door read: MARGARET HALE. SENIOR SENATOR, NEW YORK.
I pushed the door open and stepped into the reception area. It was bustling with young, terrified-looking staffers answering phones and typing frantically.
A sharp-eyed receptionist looked up at me. "Can I help you?"
"Jake Hart," I said smoothly. "The Senator is expecting me."
