Friday, 11:00 PM. Dupont Circle.
The brownstone was located on a quiet, tree-lined street in one of the most expensive, exclusive neighborhoods in Washington D.C. From the outside, it looked like the residence of a wealthy diplomat or a retired supreme court justice. There were no signs, no bouncers, and no visible security cameras.
But Darius, sitting in the driver's seat of our rented, blacked-out SUV parked half a block away, saw right through the facade.
"Thermal imaging shows four heat signatures on the roof," Darius grunted, looking at a specialized tablet mounted on the dashboard. "Snipers. Or at least, heavily armed overwatch. The front door has a biometric scanner hidden in the brass knocker, and the windows are reinforced ballistic glass. It's a fortress."
"It's where they keep the keys," I said, sitting in the back seat, staring at the brownstone.
