Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Noah
The Federal-style home sits on a corner in Georgetown’s East Village; its black door set back behind a stretch of brick sidewalk, still damp from last night’s rain.
Two slender trees stand behind an iron fence, roots pushing through frost-cracked brick.
A side gate opens to a narrow carport. Real estate gold.
From a security standpoint, it’s a nightmare.
Too many windows. Too many entry points.
The side glass panes beside the door offer a clear view straight through the house.
Two more windows sit equidistant to each side of the front door, all four windows at climbable height.
On the side street, four more climbable windows face the curb.
In back, a low brick wall encloses a yard lined with glass doors that eat half the first floor. Pretty—and easily accessible.
Cold air carries the faint scent of chimney smoke and diesel from the delivery truck idling a block over.
November has done its work on the trees—the elms bare, the oaks holding their last brown leaves—but the ivy clings to the brick, thick enough to hide a man standing flush against the wall.
The street is quiet—only the soft hiss of passing tires, the distant bark of a dog.
Georgetown’s East Village is safe, on paper. But if someone wanted Alicia Morgan or her daughter, this corner makes it easy. A van could pull up, grab the target, and vanish before the alarm thrusts the police department into action.
My gaze scales the three-story brick facade. They said townhome, but this place stands alone, wide and solid. Maybe the term applies because it shares a brick fence with the adjacent home, but by local standards, this is luxury.
I lift my phone and take perimeter shots for the team. If she’s a high-value target, she needs to move. No system on earth makes this secure. Corner property. Open sightlines. Six, maybe eight, rooftops with clear sniper angles. All it takes is time.
I ring the bell once. Wait. Ring again.
No answer.
She’s supposed to be home. I could circle the block, check the rear approach, but from here I can already monitor both the gate and door. Another vulnerability.
Intersection cams might have visual coverage. I’ll ask Quinn to pull the CCTV feed.
Footsteps click beyond the wood. Then the lock turns.
She opens the door dressed for business—silk blouse, tailored slacks, heels that bring her closer to six feet. Dark hair past her shoulders, blue eyes that hold mine for exactly two seconds before she extends her hand. “Noah.”
I’ve seen her in briefings. Watched her manage a room the way other people manage individual conversations—effortlessly, and with complete awareness of everyone in it. Knowing that didn’t prepare me for her at close range.
I take her hand. Her grip is firm, professional. She lets go quickly. Everything about her reads controlled. Composed. The gold necklace, the careful makeup, the way she stands in the doorway without stepping back to let me in yet—this is someone used to managing impressions.
The staircase rises behind her, elegant and imposing. I can see through the entire first floor from the front door. Beautiful. Vulnerable.
“Come in. I was on the phone with Dorian.” She says the name like it explains everything. It does. “He mentioned you’ll be covering night shift. I’ll set you up in the basement guest bedroom.”
I pause. Hudson’s instructions had been clear: nearby surveillance, not on-site. But I’m not about to argue in her foyer.
“That works,” I say, following her through the wide hall, toward a kitchen with windows to the back courtyard.
Inside, sunlight spills across dark maple floors, reflecting off stainless steel fixtures and glass walls. The scent of fresh coffee lingers, cut with citrus—some type of cleaner, maybe lemon oil.
The back wall is almost entirely glass, overlooking a patio where ivy shivers in the breeze. To the left, a dining room behind glass doors; the white, modern kitchen gleams beneath pendant lights; down the hall, twin living areas flank the foyer—one formal, one casual.
It’s minimalist, curated, and far too open. Too exposed.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.
“Thank you.” Her gaze flicks to my boots, then through the window where I’ve parked in the short driveway that runs along the side of her home.
“You can’t park there overnight. If you’re blocking the sidewalk, you’ll get ticketed. The carport fits two, but my daughter plays basketball after school. Once she’s in bed, I’ll move my car so you can park behind me.”
I can think of bigger logistical issues than parking, but I nod. Hudson can get the report later.
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” she says, descending the stairs to the floor below, the faint spice of her perfume trailing behind her. “Forgive the chaos.”
“No problem.” That’s what I say, but I see nothing out of place that would indicate chaos of any kind.
In the basement, the air temperature drops, and instead of lemon, I pick up notes of detergent and fabric softener. Laundry.
“You’ll stay here. It’s a better place to set up than the street. Besides, street parking can be a challenge.”
The guest room is neat, the sheets crisp, pulled back over the comforter in a hotel-worthy turn-down display.
Across the hall, a bathroom. To one side, an exercise room; to the other, a den with a heather-gray sectional, oversized TV, and grasscloth walls, their texture catching the recessed light.
The thick carpet muffles our steps. A bar gleams under recessed lighting. No chaos in sight.
“That fridge holds wine,” she says. “The other’s stocked with water and soda. Use the kitchen upstairs if you’d rather. Laundry room’s there.” She points. “Cleaning service comes Thursdays. They handle laundry, too.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She might think I’m living here, but that’s not actually the plan. I have an apartment in NoMa—North of Massachusetts Avenue, close enough. I’m night shift.
She doesn’t respond, simply climbs the stairs ahead of me. I keep my eyes on the hallway.
We continue, past the main floor I entered into, and up an additional flight of stairs.
Up here, the light grows warmer.
She gestures toward an open doorway. “My bedroom.” She points in the opposite direction. “When I work from home, I work in there.”
She points to a glass-walled home office that mirrors her office in Manhattan.
KOAN has been running daytime protective services for her about a month now.
No specific threats identified, but the congressional investigation is gaining traction—and the people it’s likely to expose aren’t minor players.
Elena Vasquez was White House chief of staff.
The names connected to her network reach high enough that even the president isn’t above scrutiny.
Anyone tied to the original case becomes a potential target, and Alicia Morgan is tied directly—she managed the senator’s crisis, she knows names, she’ll likely be called to testify.
Until recently she’d insisted nine to five coverage was sufficient. Hudson disagreed. So did I.
The hallway walls are lined with photos—sun-drenched candids of her and a dark-haired little girl with freckles and a wide smile. Unexpected warmth against all the white.
“My daughter’s bedroom is upstairs,” she says, pointing to the next flight. “Two rooms and a sitting area. One’s her hangout space, one her bedroom. The top floor’s hers.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Safest floor.”
She tilts her head, either as a question or in annoyance. I’m not sure which.
“And that one?” I gesture to a closed door beside her room.
“My closet.” A small, satisfied smile. “Converted bedroom.”
Of course. Control, order, design.
She steps into her office, opens a drawer, and hands me a set of keys. “These open all exterior doors.”
“You have an alarm.”
“Yes.” She retrieves a black folder, passes it across the desk. “Instructions, codes, contacts. I only know mine—you can set your own.”
Her movements are smooth, efficient, but a slight tightness at the corners of her mouth betrays fatigue.
I clock the framed photos on her desk. Her daughter—blue eyes, freckles, messy pigtails, joy unfiltered. A reminder that somewhere beneath all this polish, warmth exists.
“If you need anything, contact Caroline,” she says, then hesitates. “Or Hudson. I mix them up sometimes.”
“Hudson’s my supervisor.” When she mentions Caroline, she must be referring to Caroline Moore, KOAN’s founder. Dorian is her husband, a billionaire who has been in the news periodically over the decades thanks to his political family. That must be the Dorian she mentioned earlier.
“Right.” She nods. “Let Hudson know.”
“I’ll do a walk-through,” I tell her. “Check sightlines, entries, blind spots.”
“Whatever you need.” She turns back to her computer, the soft clack of keys filling the silence. “When Stella gets home, I’ll introduce you. I plan to tell her you’ll be here a couple of weeks to get my business security team in place. Just so she’s not spooked.”
“Appreciate that.”
She smiles without looking up. “Good.”
I lift the folder. “Thanks for this.”
“Of course.”
I head for the stairs. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the HVAC and the distant trill of a phone upstairs.
At the landing, I pause. Sunlight spills through the glass, white and still. Outside, a siren wails far away, fading fast.
I’ve assessed hundreds of situations. But as I move downstairs, one thought stays with me—we can secure the perimeter. What I’m not sure of is how to secure her.