Chapter 205
Raven
Forty minutes later, we had one of them secured in the back of an ambulance—a former investment banker named Trevor James, according to his wallet.
The other two had been... less cooperative.
I'd watched in horror as the first man had suddenly sprinted toward traffic on Constitution Avenue, throwing himself under a delivery truck before anyone could react. The second had somehow produced a pen—where had he even gotten it?—and driven it into his own carotid artery with mechanical precision.
Both dead within seconds. No hesitation, no self-preservation instinct. Just... execution of a command.
The Surgeon's insurance policy. If his test subjects risk capture, they self-terminate. Clean. Efficient. Absolutely terrifying.
Trevor had been the only one far enough from potential weapons or traffic that we'd managed to intercept him before whatever kill-switch protocol activated. Nash had tackled him—gently, for a man his size—and now our sole surviving witness sat on the gurney, staring at his hands with the kind of fascination usually reserved for people on heavy hallucinogens.
But his vitals were stable, his breathing normal, and when I checked his eyes, the pupils reacted properly to light.
"Fascinating," I murmured, drawing a blood sample while Nash monitored the portable EKG. "Whatever he's on, it's not suppressing autonomic functions. Just... executive control."
"He's aware," Nash observed, watching Trevor's eyes track the movement of the needle. "But he can't initiate action. Like his conscious mind is locked in a spectator role."
I labeled the vial and passed it to one of Nash's people—a woman in scrubs who didn't blink at the irregular nature of our request. "Rush tox screen. Full spectrum analysis, focus on synthetic compounds and neurological agents."
She nodded and disappeared, leaving Nash and me alone with our very compliant witness.
"Trevor," I said gently, testing a theory. "Can you hear me?"
Slow blink. Once for yes, apparently.
"Do you remember what happened to you? Before you felt this way?"
Another blink. Then, to my surprise, Trevor's mouth moved. The words came out slow, slurred, like he was speaking through molasses:
"Free... sample... wellness... center..."
Nash and I exchanged glances.
"Where?" I pressed. "Where was this wellness center?"
Trevor's hand lifted—a jerky, puppet-like movement—and pointed northeast.
"Georgetown," Nash said immediately, already pulling up a map on his phone. "Lot of high-end 'holistic health' places in that area. Perfect cover for pharmaceutical testing."
My phone buzzed—the tox screen results, already. Nash's people were efficient.
I scanned the report, and my blood ran cold.
"Compound designation: Synthesis-47. Manufactured by..." I looked up at Nash, and saw my own realization mirrored in his eyes. "Helix BioGen. Based in Los Angeles."
"Never heard of them," Nash said, but he was already typing, his fingers flying across the screen. "Let me check... shell company. Very well hidden. No public presence, no website, all their transactions are through—"
"Proxies and offshore accounts," I finished. "Standard setup for black-market pharmaceutical development. The Surgeon's not just experimenting anymore. He's manufacturing."
And if he's manufacturing, he has infrastructure. Labs. Personnel. Funding.
"This could be it," I said quietly, watching Trevor's vacant eyes. "This could be how we find him."
Nash's hand found mine, warm and solid. "We'll find him, Raven. And when we do—"
"When we do, he's mine." I turned to face him fully, letting him see the cold determination in my eyes. "I don't care about justice or legal process. The Surgeon took my mother, my childhood, and tried to make me into his 'perfect specimen.' So when we find him, I'm going to show him exactly what his perfect specimen can do."
For a long moment, Nash just looked at me. Then he smiled—not his usual charming smirk, but something fiercer. More real.
"Wouldn't have it any other way."
---
Back at the van, I dove into my laptop with renewed purpose. If Helix BioGen was the Surgeon's operation, they'd have digital footprints. Small ones, carefully hidden, but nothing was truly invisible if you knew where to look.
Two hours and three energy drinks later, I'd cracked their network security—laughably simple for a company supposedly running cutting-edge pharmaceutical research—and was sifting through their financial records.
"Got them," I announced, sitting back with satisfaction. "Helix BioGen is funded almost entirely by a single donor: a married couple named Anthony and Marianne Goodman. Russian expatriates living in—surprise, surprise—Georgetown."
Nash leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Cedar and something darker. Dangerous.
Focus, Raven. The mission. Not the way his proximity makes your pulse spike.
"The Goodmans," he read from the screen. "Arrived in the US fifteen years ago, made their fortune in 'import-export.' Which is code for—"
"Smuggling, money laundering, and probably a few dozen other felonies." I pulled up surveillance photos—a middle-aged couple, expensively dressed, the kind of people who attended charity galas and donated to political campaigns. "They've been investigated by the FBI twice, but nothing stuck. Too well connected."
"And next week," Nash added, highlighting a calendar entry I'd found in Marianne's personal email, "they're hosting a private dinner. Guest list includes several members of Helix BioGen's board of directors."
I felt a slow smile spread across my face. "Including, presumably, the Surgeon himself."
"We don't have confirmation he'll be there," Nash warned, but his tone suggested he thought it was likely. "Could be a trap."
"Of course it's a trap." I started pulling up building schematics for the Goodman estate. "That's what makes it interesting."
Nash caught my chin, gently turning my face toward his. "Raven. I'm serious. The Surgeon knows you're hunting him. He left that note specifically to bait you. Walking into a situation where he has home-field advantage—"
"Is exactly what I'm trained for," I interrupted, meeting his eyes steadily. "I've infiltrated harder targets with worse odds. And this time, I have something I didn't have before."
"What's that?"
You. Someone watching my back. Someone I actually trust not to shoot me in it.
But saying that felt too vulnerable, too honest. So instead, I smirked and tapped his chest. "The resources of Ares Legion. Try to keep up, Wilder."
He caught my hand before I could pull away, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "You know what I think?"
"That I'm reckless and stubborn?"
"That you're finally letting yourself have a partner. A real one." His voice softened. "And it scares you."
Damn him for being right.
I pulled my hand back, but not harshly. "The Goodmans. We move on them at the dinner. Full surveillance, backup teams, and if we're lucky..." I pulled up a photo of the Surgeon from Interpol's database—a grainy image, mostly shadows, but enough to recognize. "We end this."