THOMAS COLE'S POV
Tracking Enzo was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. He didn't exist in the digital world, and in the physical one, he was a ghost that only appeared when you were looking the wrong way. But I was military. I knew how to read the terrain, how to spot the "tell" in a crowd, and how to find the one man who was trying too hard to be invisible.
I'd been tailing him for six hours, weaving through the gray arteries of D.C. until the architecture turned from white marble to rusted brick. We ended up in a district the tourists avoided, a place where the streetlights hummed with a dying buzz and the air tasted of wet pavement and cheap diesel.
He disappeared down a flight of concrete stairs marked only by a dim, red-filtered bulb. No sign. No name. Just a heavy steel door that looked like it belonged to a fallout shelter.
I gave him a two-minute lead, checked the weight of the Glock tucked into the small of my back, and followed.
