An Introvert in Paris - Part 2 : The Origin

Chapter Three

Escape at the Airport

The moment I stepped into the airport, I sensed it—danger lurking beneath the seemingly routine movements of travelers. The agency operatives had already infiltrated the premises, their presence scattered across the main terminal, their eyes scanning the crowd for me.

I walked with calculated ease, my heart steady, my breathing controlled. Panic was my enemy. Five of them veered off into a restricted access corridor, believing I had taken cover inside. They were wrong. I was already down the hall, slipping past oblivious tourists who had no idea the quiet war unfolding around them.

Then I saw him—a lone operative stationed by the glass exit doors, his hand resting lightly over his concealed sidearm. His eyes locked onto me.

"Get on your knees and raise your hands," he ordered, voice low but firm.

I kept walking.

His patience wore thin. He fired two shots into the air. The sharp cracks sent the airport into chaos—shrieks, people diving for cover, the stampede of confused civilians scrambling to get away. I pivoted on my heel and merged into the rushing crowd, my movements fluid and natural. Near the restrooms, I ducked into an open stall, pressed my back against the cold tile, and waited. The commotion outside was my cover.

When the noise dulled slightly, I climbed up the stall divider and into the ventilation shaft above. Moving swiftly but silently, I navigated the ducts until I reached an opening overlooking a service hallway. I kicked the vent cover loose and dropped down, landing in a crouch.

Two agents stood with their backs to me.

Perfect.

I moved fast. The first one never saw me coming—an arm around his throat, a precise chokehold that cut off his air. His partner reacted too slow. I drove my knee into his midsection, disarmed him, and sent him sprawling. As he struggled to get back up, I pressed his own gun against his temple.

"Talk."

His breath was ragged. "What... am I... doing wrong?" he muttered before his consciousness slipped away.

I took his radio.

Then my phone vibrated in my pocket. Unknown number.

I answered but didn't speak.

"Hey, Ryanne." The voice was cool, familiar. "Didn't expect to catch up with you so soon."

My grip on the gun tightened. "Who is this?"

"The Director. I'd like to bring you in."

I exhaled sharply, glancing toward the exit. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

Before he could respond, my screen flashed with another message. It was from Lynn. Meet me at my place. 7 a.m. Don't be late.

I hung up.

Lynn's Apartment – A Silent Warning

At precisely 6:30 a.m., I was in her apartment. When she turned on the lights, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Oh my God, you scared me," she gasped, dropping whatever she had been holding.

I said nothing. I just watched her.

Her eyes flicked around nervously. Then, she grabbed a marker and wrote on a small whiteboard on the dining table:

"They're listening. They'll be here any minute. Take this—passports, IDs, cash. Get out. Now."

She erased the message before I could respond.

I nodded, took the package she handed me, and slipped out the front door just as headlights flickered at the far end of the street.