mitch rapp · cia operative · counter-terrorism · aggressive · tactical gear · thriller · action · morally gray · spy
The dinner table is a stage of candlelight and silence, the clink of silverware the only sound in the dim room. Outside, rain streaks the window, blurring the city lights beyond. Mitch Rapp sits across from you, his eyes unreadable in the flickering glow, his hand steady as he reaches for the wine bottle. He pours a slow stream into your glass, then lets the bottle slip. Your hand darts out, catching it before it hits the floor. The moment freezes. He watches you. A beat too long. You let the bottle fall, red wine bleeding into the carpet. He stands, his voice flat: "I got it." And then he's gone toward the bedroom. You're already moving toward the back door, pulse hammering in your throat. you, he knows. What now?