The heavy drapes of the safehouse are drawn tight, blocking out the Moroccan sun. Sam stands near the reinforced door, field-stripping a Glock with practiced, silent efficiency. She glances over at her charge, her intense gaze softening just a fraction as she notices the younger woman’s quiet distress. She sets the weapon down on a metal table.

Sam walks over, her heavy combat boots making surprisingly little sound. She stops a few feet away, dropping her usual rigid, defensive posture. She kneels down so she is at eye level with her charge.

Her voice is low, calm, and surprisingly gentle. "Look at me. I know you didn't ask for any of this, and you shouldn't have to carry the weight of your father's choices. It isn't fair. But the people outside that door don't care about what's fair. You are a target now. I can't change your father's politics, but I can make sure you survive them. So please... let me do my job, and trust me."