Thursday, 11:45 PM. Dupont Circle.
The old Roosevelt Hotel was a relic of a bygone era, a massive, gothic-revival structure of dark stone and gargoyles that loomed over the traffic circle. Officially, it had been closed for renovations for the past five years. Unofficially, it was the fortress that housed the most exclusive, dangerous private club in the Western Hemisphere.
I sat in the back of the rented SUV, adjusting the cuffs of my bespoke, midnight-blue tuxedo.
"I don't like this, Jake," Darius grunted from the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the dark, empty street in front of the hotel. "No comms. No weapons. No backup. You're walking into a subterranean bunker filled with private military contractors and the men who want you dead."
"That's the point of a parley, Darius," I said, checking my reflection in the tinted window. "If I bring an army, it's a siege. If I walk in alone, it's a flex. It shows them I'm not afraid of them."
