Today had been a grinding, paranoid kind of day. Every block I turned, every shadow that lingered a second too long in my rearview mirror, made it feel like I was being followed. I'd spent hours looking over my shoulder, but I forced myself to shrug it off. If they wanted me dead, I would've been dead already.
For now, I was going to do the one thing that actually made me happy.
I turned the key in the ignition. My car roared to life, and I couldn't help but smile at the deep, rhythmic purr of the engine vibrating through the steering wheel. Tonight was going to be a good night. I had promised myself it would be.
Down in the cup holder, my phone gave a sudden, sharp buzz. I glanced at it, but there was no time to check it. Out on the asphalt, the flag girl was already stepping up into the center line. She raised the neon flags high, and the entire atmosphere turned electric. I braced my hands on the wheel, ready to race.
The second the flags dropped and the starting gun cracked through the humid Miami air, my foot slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The tires screeched, biting into the pavement as the gears shifted flawlessly. My eyes went wide, adrenaline flooding my veins, entirely focused on my competitor in the next lane—Madison's boyfriend. Madison, who also happened to be the flag girl, had spent all week swearing up and down that I wasn't the best racer on the Miami underground scene.
But as the speedometer climbed and I pulled a solid couple of meters ahead of his bumper, I was actively proving her wrong.
But then, a cold wave washed over me. I was winning, so why did I suddenly feel sick? A sharp, heavy knot formed in the pit of my stomach.
My phone continued to buzz relentlessly against the plastic of the cup holder. Up ahead, the dark horizon was suddenly pierced by two bright, yellow glowing circles. Headlights. Facing me dead-on in my lane.
I know what to do, I told myself, the racer instincts kicking in. I could just swerve around them. This was street racing, after all; obstacles were part of the game. But a terrifying gut feeling told me otherwise. At the sheer speed I was pushing, a sudden jerk of the wheel would send my car into a catastrophic flip.
My foot shifted to the brake, pressing down slowly at first before panic took over and I slammed it into the floorboard. The tires wailed in protest. The car skidded, the nose dipping violently, until it finally screeched to a halt—my front bumper merely scraping against the mysterious vehicle blocking the road.
Heart pounding against my ribs, I threw the car into park and scrambled out into the night air. Across the gap, the door to the other car swung open, and a man stepped out. He didn't look angry or startled. He just walked toward me with a steady, calculated stride, holding an open wallet in front of him.
"CIA. Are you Lauren Rose?"
His voice was cold, almost robotic, cutting through the fading sound of the race. As he stepped beneath the flickering amber glow of a nearby street light, his features came into focus. His face was sharp, and his eyes were filled with an intense, unwavering seriousness.
"I'm Mitch Rapp," he stated, snapping the wallet shut and stepping closer. "I'm here to collect you."
I instinctively took a step backward, my heels clicking on the asphalt. "Collect me?"
I glanced over my shoulder. The roar of my competitor's engine echoed in the distance as he sped right past us, likely too blinded by his own headlights to notice I had even stopped.
"You're not in trouble, Ms. Rose. We need your help," Rapp said. He crossed his arms over his chest, a movement that intentionally shifted his jacket just enough to reveal the heavy tactical handgun strapped to his belt. "Cooperate, and no force will be used."
