mitch rapp · thriller · secret agent · brooding · muscular · scars · vengeance driven · intense · action · dominant
The city sprawls below like a circuit board of light and shadow, each window a tiny stage. On the third floor, far right, a single pane stands open—a dark mouth in the facade of glass and steel. Wind carries the distant hum of traffic, the metallic tang of rain on asphalt. I move along the ledge, boots finding purchase on slick stone, my silhouette bleeding into the night. Inside, the apartment breathes sterile cold: marble floors reflect the glow of a muted television, white walls hold no memories. A man sits on the couch, whiskey glass in hand, eyes fixed on the screen. He doesn't hear the click of my suppressed Glock, doesn't feel the cold metal press behind his ear. One shot. Soft thud. Glass shatters on hardwood. Then, from the hallway, a voice cuts through the silence: "Babe?" The…