BLOOD ON THE LINEN: RECKONING AT THE ALTAR

Elena cut her vehicle's headlights two blocks before her apartment building, coasting silently into an alleyway shrouded in darkness. She killed the engine and stepped out into the pouring rain, pulling the hood of her black coat over her damp hair.

Across the street, six tactical officers in unmarked gray uniforms were stacking up outside the main entrance of her brownstone. Deputy Director Keller stood beneath the streetlamp, his long trench coat billowing in the wind, a secure radio pressed to his ear.

Elena checked her weapon. Eleven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. She had no intention of shooting federal agents who were simply following orders, but Keller was a different matter. Keller was dirty.

Slipping through the shadows of the adjacent alley, Elena reached the rear fire escape. She leaped, catching the bottom rung of the iron ladder, and pulled herself up with fluid, practiced strength. Climbing four stories in complete silence, she reached the exterior window of her master bedroom.

She used a diamond-tipped glass cutter from her tactical pouch to score a neat circle around the window latch. With a gentle push, the glass popped inward. She reached through, unlatched the frame, and slid into the darkened room.

The apartment was silent, but the air smelled wrong. A trace of expensive tobacco—Keller’s signature cloves.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

Elena flattened herself against the wall beside the bedroom door, slowing her breathing to an imperceptible rhythm. The doorknob turned slowly. A tall figure stepped into the threshold, flashlight illuminating the bed.

Elena moved like a shadow. She struck forward, slapping the barrel of the agent's weapon aside while driving her palm directly upward into his jaw. The man gasped, stumbling backward, but Elena didn't give him time to recover. She hooked her leg behind his knee, bringing him down hard onto the carpet, her forearm compressing his carotid artery. Within five seconds, he was unconscious.

She stripped his radio and earpiece, shoving them into her pocket, then knelt by the hardwood floorboards near her nightstand.

Using a tactical knife, she pried up the loose plank Arthur had mentioned. Beneath it lay a heavy, fireproof aluminum briefcase.

She popped the latches. Packed tightly inside were stacks of bearer bonds, alongside a forged diplomatic passport bearing her photograph and a new identity: Elena Moreau, Republic of Seychelles.