Margo closed up her office and headed home. She lived within walking distance of the White House, a nice perk once she got the job. Margo had no car and hated public transportation. The buses were too slow, the Metro never let you off close enough to where you were going. A leisurely twenty-minute walk took about the same time as it would to be jostled in rush-hour traffic on the train.
It happened fast. Margo was just starting over the viaduct near her apartment. The gray van appeared out of nowhere and cruised beside her, mirroring her speed.
The side door slid open. Two masked men dressed in black hopped out, and before Margo could scream, a hand slid over her mouth, an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and her body, still in a firm embrace, was flung unceremoniously into the back of the van.
Struggling to free herself, Margo twisted her head.
There was a third man in the van. His face was not masked, and Margo recognized him. It was the man with Arab features, the phony CIA agent who’d talked to her before.
Then Margo felt a prick in her shoulder and everything faded to black, just as the side door of the van slid shut.