Chapter 204
Raven
The surveillance van smelled like stale coffee and electrical equipment—a scent I'd come to associate with the past seventy-two hours of my life.
Katya and Ethan had returned home three days ago. I'd barely had time to miss them before diving headfirst into the hunt for the Surgeon.
The annoying—or perhaps surprising—part was that Nash had decided to join me.
"The President gave his word about no surveillance," I'd pointed out when Nash first appeared with a duffel bag full of monitoring equipment.
"Good thing I'm not surveilling you," he'd replied with that infuriating smirk. "We're surveilling for the Surgeon. Together."
So here we were, day three of our stakeout.
Nash shifted beside me, adjusting the directional microphone array mounted on the dashboard. The equipment was top-tier: a Leupold Mark 4 spotting scope with thermal imaging, three wireless bug detectors, a spectrum analyzer for radio frequency monitoring, and my personal favorite—a military-grade parabolic microphone that could pick up conversations from half a mile away.
"Remind me again why the President's newest security consultant is spending her evenings in a cramped van instead of, say, studying for that AP Calc exam you mentioned?" Nash's voice carried that familiar teasing edge as he fine-tuned the microphone's gain control.
I lowered the binoculars—Steiner Military Marine 10x50s, because I refused to work with subpar optics—and shot him a flat look. "Because the Surgeon's last confirmed appearance was at the White House. He wouldn't risk exposure like that without reconnaissance. There's a trail, and it starts here."
Three blocks from the East Wing. Perfect sightline to the service entrance. If I were planning an infiltration...
"So dedicated," Nash murmured, his fingers dancing across the laptop keyboard as he cycled through traffic camera feeds. The blue glow of the monitors cast shadows across his face as a hint of amusement curved his lips. "The President would be deeply touched if he knew—probably thinks his newest consultant is out here in a cramped surveillance van, sacrificing sleep and comfort, all in the name of protecting his life."
"The President can be touched by my foot if you don't stop talking and start scanning sector four." I grabbed my own laptop, pulling up the thermal imaging overlay of Pennsylvania Avenue. "I'm not here for patriotic duty. I'm here because that bastard killed my mother, and he made the mistake of showing his face."
And he left me that cute little note. 'The perfect specimen.' Like I'm some lab rat he's been watching.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it sent a familiar thrill down my spine—the kind I used to get before a high-value contract. Only this time, it wasn't about money.
This time, it was personal.
Nash glanced over, and something in his expression softened. "You know, in all my years running operations, I've never had a partner who looked quite so happy when discussing revenge."
"That's because your other partners were amateurs." I zoomed in on a cluster of heat signatures near the Treasury Building. False alarm—just tourists. "And this isn't revenge. It's pest control."
He laughed—that low, genuine sound that made my traitorous heart skip. "There's the Phantom I know."
I hated how warm that made me feel. Hated how comfortable this had become—the two of us working side by side, falling into an easy rhythm of surveillance and banter. In my previous life, partners were liabilities. People you used and discarded before they could do the same to you.
But this... this was different.
Stop it. Focus. The Surgeon is out there, and you're getting distracted by a man who probably has seventeen different identities and a kill count that rivals your own.
"Movement," I said sharply, tracking a figure who'd appeared on the thermal feed. "Southwest corner of the Eisenhower Building. Male, approximately six feet, walking pattern suggests military or law enforcement training."
Nash was already on it, the spotting scope whirring as he adjusted the focus. "Too tall. The Surgeon is five-ten according to Interpol's file. And this guy's gait is wrong—recent leg injury, probably from that Joint Base Andrews security breach last month."
"Show-off," I muttered, but I was smiling.
When did I start enjoying this? The companionship, the shared purpose, the way he anticipates my thoughts before I voice them?
"Contact at your nine o'clock," Nash said suddenly, his voice shifting to business mode. "Three individuals, stumbling gait, disoriented movement pattern."
I swung the binoculars around and felt my stomach drop.
Three men—early twenties, dressed in business casual—were wandering down H Street like zombies in a low-budget horror film. One crashed into a parking meter and just... stood there, face pressed against the metal, not reacting to the impact. Another was trying to walk through a locked door, repeatedly walking into it with mechanical precision.
The third had his phone out, typing the same message over and over, his fingers moving in an endless loop.
"That's not drugs," I breathed, my mind racing through possibilities. "That's too controlled, too uniform. Look at their pupils—"
Nash had already zoomed in with the scope's night vision mode. "Dilated, but not from typical narcotics. And their heart rates..." He checked the thermal readout. "Barely elevated. They should be in panic mode from disorientation, but they're calm. Eerily calm."
Just like the waiter at the White House. The same vacant compliance, the same mechanical precision.
My pulse quickened. "The Surgeon's calling card. He doesn't just kill—he experiments. And this..." I gestured at the three stumbling figures, "this is the same compound he used to turn that waiter into a weapon."
I was already moving, grabbing the tactical medkit from under my seat. "We need one of them. Now. Before they wander into traffic or the Secret Service picks them up."
"Raven—"
"He's testing something, Nash. Some kind of neurological agent that induces compliance without sedation. If we can get a blood sample, trace the compound..."
"We'll find the manufacturer," he finished, already reaching for his jacket. "And the Surgeon's supply chain."
God, I love how his brain works.
I didn't say that out loud. Instead, I kicked open the van door and stepped into the cold DC night, Nash falling into step beside me like we'd been doing this for years instead of days.