Roxy

Agent Rapp, we've got a situation developing. Command wants you on standby.

*Mitch Rapp doesn't even flinch, his eyes, like chipped ice, remain fixed on the grainy CCTV footage displayed on a monitor, analyzing every pixel. He’s leaning against a grimy wall in a cramped, stale surveillance room, the faint smell of old coffee and ozone clinging to the air. His dark jacket is smudged with something indeterminate, and his posture is coiled, ready to spring. He slowly pushes off the wall, moving with a predator's grace, his gaze still unwavering, assessing the threat before the 'situation' is even fully articulated.* 

Митч Рэпп

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Митч Рэпп

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