Chapter 206
Raven
Nash's expression shifted from approval to skepticism in the span of a heartbeat. "Too aggressive. You'd spook the entire network before we got within fifty feet of the Surgeon."
I bristled. "So what? We wait for another body count?"
"We participate." His tone was maddeningly casual, like he'd just suggested ordering takeout instead of infiltrating a criminal pharmaceutical empire. "Officially."
I stared at him. "That's... actually harder than a direct assault. The Goodmans are established players with decades of connections. Getting invitations would take weeks we don't have, forging credentials would get us killed, and—"
"We don't need invitations." Nash pulled up a file on his tablet, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. "We become the Goodmans."
It took exactly three seconds for the pieces to click.
Oh, you beautiful, psychotic bastard.
"You're saying we grab them, extract everything we need, and walk in wearing their faces." My pulse kicked up—not from fear, but from the sheer audacity of it. "Christ, that's either the most brilliant thing I've ever heard or certifiably insane."
"Why not both?" Nash's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "I've already got a team on standby. Facial mapping specialists, voice modulators, the full package. We take the Goodmans tonight, get their biometrics processed, and we're Anthony and Marianne by tomorrow evening."
This man is either a tactical genius or completely unhinged. Possibly both. Definitely both.
"Tonight," I repeated, already running scenarios in my head. "Georgetown. Their estate has perimeter security, but nothing an Ares Legion team couldn't bypass in under ninety seconds."
"Fifty," Nash corrected, standing. "Finn's already positioned two blocks away with extraction. We go in quiet, come out quieter."
I grabbed my jacket. "Then what are we waiting for?"
---
The Goodman estate was everything you'd expect from criminal wealth trying to masquerade as legitimate import-export money—wrought iron gates, manicured hedges, and enough tasteful lighting to suggest success without flaunting excess.
Amateur hour.
Nash killed the engine three houses down. No words needed—we'd done this dance enough times that communication had become instinctive. He took point, I covered the eastern approach, and within forty seconds we were through the garden entrance and moving through shadows toward the main house.
Through the French doors, I could see Anthony and Marianne Goodman at their dining table. Expensive wine. Roasted duck. NPR playing softly in the background.
Such a nice, normal evening. About to get very complicated.
Nash's hand signal: three fingers, then a fist. On my mark.
I readied myself, feeling that familiar coldness settle into my bones—the place where Phantom lived, where emotion became irrelevant and only the mission mattered.
The door burst open with minimal noise—Nash's shoulder check was poetry in motion—and before either Goodman could register our presence, I was already moving.
Marianne's hand dove under the table. Not for a panic button.
For a Makarov PMM.
Former intelligence. Should've guessed.
My boot caught her wrist before the gun cleared its holster, sending the weapon skittering across marble floors. Anthony was faster—already had his piece out, silencer gleaming—but Nash closed the distance like a freight train, slamming the older man face-first into their very expensive dinner spread.
Duck everywhere. Such a waste.
"Evening," I said pleasantly, pressing my knee into Marianne's spine while Nash secured Anthony with zip-ties that appeared from nowhere. "Love what you've done with the place. Very 'reformed Soviet money laundering chic.'"
Marianne spat something in Russian that definitely wasn't complimentary.
"Charming," Nash observed, hauling Anthony into a sitting position. "Let's keep this civilized. We have questions. You have answers. Simple transaction."
"We know nothing," Anthony growled, accent thick. "You break into wrong house—"
"Helix BioGen," I interrupted, pulling up their corporate filings on my phone. "Your shell company funds them through three offshore accounts in the Caymans. You launder payments for research that turns people into chemically lobotomized puppets." I showed him the screen. "Want to keep pretending you're just import-export?"
The color drained from Marianne's face. Anthony, however, remained defiant.
Time for the hard approach.
I glanced at Nash. He nodded slightly.
"Your husband's brave," I told Marianne conversationally, pulling a knife from my boot. "That's admirable. Unfortunately for him, I'm not interested in bravery. I'm interested in information. And you..." I crouched beside her, letting the blade catch the light. "You look like someone who understands cost-benefit analysis."
"She knows nothing!" Anthony barked. "I handle business, she—"
"Manages the books," I finished. "Including the payment ledgers for Helix. Including the guest lists for their exclusive events." I met Marianne's eyes. "Don't you?"
Her gaze darted to Anthony, then back to me. Fear and calculation warred across her features.
"One week," she whispered finally. "Yacht. International waters."
"Marianne—" Anthony's voice cracked with fury.
"Annual shareholders meeting," she continued, words tumbling faster now. "The... the real backers attend. Not just board members. The ones who fund the research programs."
Nash and I exchanged glances. This was bigger than we'd thought.
"Names," I demanded.
"Don't know all," Marianne said. "Only that this year, someone very important comes. Someone who never attends in person. Helix executives, they are very excited."
The Surgeon. Has to be.
My heart rate spiked—not from fear, but from the predatory thrill of closing in on prey.
Nash must have sensed it because his hand found my shoulder, grounding. "The yacht. Where does it leave from?"
"Marina del Rey," Anthony spat, resignation replacing defiance. "Saturday. 8 PM."
I did the mental math. That gave us six days to prepare. Six days to become convincing enough to fool career criminals and whoever else would be on that boat.
"Can't go in guns blazing," I murmured to Nash. "Public waters means we're on our own out there. One wrong move and we're fish food."
"Then we don't make wrong moves." Nash's eyes held that peculiar intensity I'd come to recognize—the look that said he was already three steps ahead. "Which is exactly what I proposed—we become them. Completely."
"Become..." I felt heat creep up my neck as the full implication hit. "You mean become them. Completely. Husband and wife."
Husband and wife. Nash's wife.
The corner of Nash's mouth quirked. "Just the roles, Raven. Method acting."