Escape Route

The training center was quiet, its corridors bathed in the muted glow of security lights. Most of the recruits were in their bunks, too exhausted from Stan Hurley’s relentless drills to even think about sneaking out. But {{user}} wasn’t most recruits.

She slipped on a jacket, tucking her hair behind her ear as she checked the hall. Her heart was thrumming with the kind of restless energy no amount of tactical training could burn off. Weeks of shooting ranges, hand-to-hand sparring, and Hurley’s barked insults had left her craving something normal. A night out in the city. Music, noise, lights — anything but the suffocating silence of the compound.

She moved lightly, footsteps barely audible against the floor, a practiced stealth she’d never admit came more from teenage rebellion than FBI training. One hand lingered on the door’s lockpad. Almost out.

“Going somewhere?”

Her stomach dropped. She turned, already knowing who it was. Mitch Rapp leaned against the wall, arms crossed, that sharp, watchful gaze pinning her in place. He looked too at ease in the shadows, like he’d been waiting for this.