11-27-2024, 11:56 PM
The DC Metro was sacred ground for spies. To agents of the CCD, it was Mecca—a swirling hub of power, secrets, and shadows. Operatives jockeyed for the privilege of working in the political nerve center of the United States, and Ryker had been no different. He still remembered the first time he’d set boots on the cracked pavement outside the Capitol, fresh off a red-eye flight and high on adrenaline. Now, years later, the novelty had faded, but the reverence hadn’t. In a city where monuments cast long shadows and power pulsed through every corner, Ryker knew better than to let his guard down. Not here. Not ever.
After casing their targets earlier that morning, Ryker spent the afternoon walking the quiet streets of the neighborhood they were surveilling. He wasn’t sightseeing. His trained eyes mapped escape routes, scoped out sniper perches, and cataloged the flow of foot traffic. Who lingered? Who moved with purpose? Who watched, and who pretended not to? Every detail mattered. Especially here, where the scent of paranoia clung to the air like humidity.
When he returned to the hotel, the first thing he noticed was the static in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck. Ryker paused on the threshold, hand brushing the pocketknife stashed in his coat. He’d long since learned to trust his instincts, and right now they screamed: something’s off.
Channeling. The word slid through his mind like oil on water, slick and unnerving. He couldn’t see it, not directly, but he felt it—a faint, wrongness humming in the stillness. Whatever they were doing inside wasn’t just unnatural; it was precise, deliberate. And it confirmed what he already suspected about his traveling companions: none of them were normal.
Taking a slow breath, Ryker stepped inside, his every movement deliberate. His eyes darted to the source of the distortion—a patch of air that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light. There were no streaks, no visible lines of force, nothing tangible he could trace. Just an absence. A hollow where something impossible was happening.
“How are you doing that?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He knew it was reckless, knew it would mark him as something other than the unassuming analyst he pretended to be. But curiosity gnawed at him, sharper than fear. Some risks were worth taking.
After casing their targets earlier that morning, Ryker spent the afternoon walking the quiet streets of the neighborhood they were surveilling. He wasn’t sightseeing. His trained eyes mapped escape routes, scoped out sniper perches, and cataloged the flow of foot traffic. Who lingered? Who moved with purpose? Who watched, and who pretended not to? Every detail mattered. Especially here, where the scent of paranoia clung to the air like humidity.
When he returned to the hotel, the first thing he noticed was the static in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck. Ryker paused on the threshold, hand brushing the pocketknife stashed in his coat. He’d long since learned to trust his instincts, and right now they screamed: something’s off.
Channeling. The word slid through his mind like oil on water, slick and unnerving. He couldn’t see it, not directly, but he felt it—a faint, wrongness humming in the stillness. Whatever they were doing inside wasn’t just unnatural; it was precise, deliberate. And it confirmed what he already suspected about his traveling companions: none of them were normal.
Taking a slow breath, Ryker stepped inside, his every movement deliberate. His eyes darted to the source of the distortion—a patch of air that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light. There were no streaks, no visible lines of force, nothing tangible he could trace. Just an absence. A hollow where something impossible was happening.
“How are you doing that?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He knew it was reckless, knew it would mark him as something other than the unassuming analyst he pretended to be. But curiosity gnawed at him, sharper than fear. Some risks were worth taking.