Chapter 223 Nia

• Nia’s phone buzzed incessantly on the nightstand, pulling her from a fitful sleep. The clock read 2:17 AM, the D.C. skyline a blur of lights beyond her apartment window. She fumbled for the device, squinting at the unknown number. The message was terse: Whistleblower has docs on Harlan Arms. Meet at the old warehouse on 14th and M, 3 AM. Come alone. -V. Her stomach twisted. Vardo. The hideout he’d mentioned before, a forgotten relic from his early dealings, now a bolt-hole for crises.
• She dressed quickly—black jeans, a fitted sweater, practical boots—heart pounding as she slipped out into the night. The city hummed with oblivious energy, taxis slicing through rain-slicked streets, but Nia felt the noose tightening. The whistleblower’s threat had leaked into intelligence channels that afternoon: an anonymous tip to the FBI about Vardo’s off-books arms exports to unstable regimes, tied to backroom deals that skirted sanctions. If it blew open, Vince’s administration would crumble under accusations of nepotism and corruption. And she, the mediator caught in the crossfire, her speeches and secrets the thinnest veil.
• The warehouse loomed on the edge of the industrial district, chain-link fence rattling in the wind. Nia parked her rental car—a precaution against trackers—and approached the side door, knocking twice as instructed. It creaked open, Vardo’s silhouette filling the frame, his face etched with fury under the harsh fluorescent bulb. ‘Inside,’ he barked, yanking her in by the arm.