When Thorne arrived, the monument was a tomb. The Seed was slumped against a cold stone pillar, his eyes wide and fixed on the Potomac. No blood, no struggle. Just a small, silver flash drive clutched in his hand and a faint scent of bitter almonds in the air.
Thorne’s contact, a jittery intern from the Hill known only as "The Seed," had promised him the decryption key. They were supposed to meet at the base of the Jefferson Memorial, a place where the echoes are loud enough to hide a whisper.
The image wasn't of a politician or a lobbyist. It was a live feed of his own office. On the screen, he saw himself sitting at the computer, lit by the blue glow of the monitor. Behind him, a shadow moved.
Back at his desk, he plugged it in. The screen flickered to life. It wasn't a spreadsheet or a legal brief. It was a video file, crisp and sharp. He pressed play.
Thorne took the drive. As he turned to leave, the headlights of a black SUV cut through the mist like twin blades. He didn't run; he knew this city too well. He stepped into the shadows of the cherry blossoms, the drive heavy in his pocket.