Nia’s phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand, pulling her from a fitful sleep. The clock read 2:17 AM, the D.C. skyline a blur of lights beyond her apartment window. She fumbled for the device, squinting at the unknown number. The message was terse: Whistleblower has docs on Harlan Arms. Meet at the old warehouse on 14th and M, 3 AM. Come alone. -V. Her stomach twisted. Vardo. The hideout he’d mentioned before, a forgotten relic from his early dealings, now a bolt-hole for crises.
She dressed quickly—black jeans, a fitted sweater, practical boots—heart pounding as she slipped out into the night. The city hummed with oblivious energy, taxis slicing through rain-slicked streets, but Nia felt the noose tightening. The whistleblower’s threat had leaked into intelligence channels that afte
