The late-night train from New York hissed as it slowed into Union Station, Washington D.C. The platform was almost empty — just a few travelers clutching coffee cups and half-sleeping on benches. It was not surprising as a statistics noted that people's choice for mode of travel had started leaning more heavily on planes and ships.
A woman stepped off quietly, her small black suitcase rolling behind her. Her hair was chestnut brown, her glasses thick-framed, and her outfit plain — the kind of look that made people forget her face the moment she passed. However it was still not uncommon, Washington wasn't a contender in citizen fashion as compared to counterparts like London or Seoul.
To anyone watching, she was just another traveler.To those who knew her, she was Napat Ratana — better known once as R-Psalm 23. R for Requiem which the organization used for ex-communicated or rogue members either marked for death, on the run or dismissed. In Ratana's case it was both on the run and dismissed.
She kept her head down, moving quickly through the dim station corridors. Cameras blinked overhead; she timed her movements to avoid their angles, slipping into shadows and timing her steps between passing trains. Years of training had made this a second nature — blending, disappearing, breathing silence. That was the life of an assassin.
Outside, rain had just started to fall. She hailed a cab, gave a random intersection at first, then switched destinations mid-ride. "Actually, make it Georgetown, near the waterfront."
The driver nodded, not caring.
When the taxi finally stopped, she paid in cash and walked the rest of the way. The streets were glossy with rainlight, reflecting passing headlights like moving blurs. It was that time of the year when citizens of the world's political heartbeat where in for some entertainment as Washington Commanders where going band for band, with long term rivals, Dallas Cowboys. Most people where in their homes tucked in blankets and with home-made popcorns.
The Jefferson Bay Hotel came into view from her approaching rear. The property was one of the most debated properties investors could dwell in as a bloc believed it was owned by some pro-Nazi survivor who built it then retreated for control behind the scenes while another bloc argued that it was just another Brazilian mafias' business which the American government turned a blind eye to. However it was unparalleled in one particular field: Anonymity.
She entered, smiled faintly at the night clerk, paid fully in cash and signed the register under one Lena Dorran and made her way to the elevator .
The elevator creaked as it climbed to the fifth floor. Inside her room, she locked the door twice, then moved to the window, scanning the street below. A man smoking across the road looked up briefly. Their eyes met. She let the curtain fall shut.
Her phone buzzed once — an unknown number flashing on screen.She stared at it.The same number that had summoned her from New York.
After a moment's hesitation, she redialed.
The line clicked open immediately. A man's voice came through — filtered, calm, mechanical.
"Welcome to Washington, Pandora. The Director will see you soon."
She didn't reply. She knew this people well enough to know that the communicator at the other end wasn't interested in her reply. Entirely exhausted she slipped into a compartment that read "bathroom".
* * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The St. James Teakhouse wasn't the kind of place you stumbled into. It was where Washington's low-profile power brokers met when they didn't want to be seen — a polished wooden cocoon tucked behind rows of bland office buildings. There was even a fleeting myth that the fathers of American democracy once met here.
Marcus Haynes sat by the window, absently stirring a cup of black coffee that had gone cold a long time ago. The spoon hit the cup rhythmically — cling… cling… cling… It was an old habit he'd picked up during field operations, a trick to calm his nerves. These days, it was all he had left.
He adjusted his tie, scanning the restaurant with trained eyes. A retired congressman two tables away pretended to read a newspaper. Marcus knew he was the one ongoing trials at a federal court for alleged sexual trafficking. The waiter behind the counter looked too focused on the register. Even here, surrounded by Washington's quiet elite, Marcus could never fully relax. The CIA Director's chair had a way of making you paranoid.
Then the door opened.
A young man in a black coat stepped in. Early thirties, maybe. He had a kind of face that stuck ordinary yet there was something about the way he moved. Calculated. deadly. He wasn't trying to blend in. He just wasn't there until he wanted to be.
Marcus's fingers froze over the spoon. He'd seen that walk before — in agents who didn't miss shots, in men who'd spent too long in dark places. Now he was almost certain the guest he had been waiting for participated in America's war in Vietnam. Only people who witnessed such horror could walk like that. It was a walk of a predator lazily indulging its prey.
The man sat opposite him, removing his gloves carefully. His hands were lean but steady. He didn't bother to look around. "Director Haynes," he said calmly, voice deep and cold. "I didn't think I'd ever see the day you'd call us."
Marcus leaned back, forcing himself to look unimpressed. "I didn't. The President did." He had always had the notion that this people where nothing better than terrorists, perhaps more civilized.
A small smile flickered across the man's lips. "Shane Cosby. The man who swore he'd never deal with shadows. And yet, here we are."
Haynes didn't respond to that. "We have a problem"
"You're quite straightforward director"
Finally, Marcus spoke. "Two nights ago, Professor Ziyech an Iranian scientist working with CERN was abducted with a jet we suspect is Russian owned. We believe his research could compromise multiple global systems. The project's codename is The Neural Key."
The man's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you think Moscow took him."
"Moscow's denying everything, but the data says otherwise," Marcus said. "Still, it's not that simple. Congress doesn't want to fund another covert op. The Pentagon says it's out of their jurisdiction. The President's hands are tied. That's where you come in."
The man said nothing for a while. He reached for the sugar jar, poured a small amount into his untouched tea, then stirred slowly — mirroring Marcus's earlier habit, almost mocking it.
"I suppose," he said at last, "you want The Shadow Psalms to retrieve the scientist and erase any trace that he ever existed."
"Something like that, or even bring us the damn code" Marcus said quietly.
"And in return?"
Haynes had expected this. "You'll get full access to restricted U.S. defense channels for the duration of the mission and two more years — drone grids, encrypted sat-lines, deep web monitoring. And you'll operate under U.S. government cover if things go south. No one touches you. Officially, you don't exist."
The man chuckled softly, leaning back. "You're offering me a ghost badge, Director."
Marcus's eyes didn't flinch. "I'm offering you protection. And maybe a favor from the most powerful man on Earth."
For a few seconds, the younger man just studied him quiet, calculating with a tinge of pity. Marcus hated that look. It reminded him of how his dad looked at him when he failed sixth grade. Then the man stood, buttoning his coat. "You've always been good at sounding reasonable, Director. I'll take the offer… for now. We're already on the process of recalling one of our finest agents back."
He turned to leave.
Marcus's voice stopped him. "You didn't tell me your name."
The man paused, glancing over his shoulder with the faintest smirk."You already know it."
Then he was gone, slipping out of the teakhouse as silently as he'd entered.
Marcus sat there a moment longer, finally sipping the cold coffee. He hated the taste. But what he hated more was the feeling he'd just unleashed something he couldn't control.