Ava slipped into the driver's seat of a nondescript grey sedan, the kind of car that blended into parking lots and intersections without raising suspicion.
Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her chest was tight, tight with the kind of pressure that felt like a slow implosion.
A hoodie was pulled low over her face, and a plain baseball cap sat crooked on her head. She didn't bother with any makeup or jewellery. It was just her, the burner phone buzzing silently in her coat pocket, and a slim folding knife nestled in the waistband of her jeans.
The safehouse address burned in her mind.
As she drove away from the curb, she noticed headlights flashing in her rearview mirror. It was a black car—the same one she had seen earlier.
She took a few turns around the block, acting like she was searching for a parking spot, then suddenly switched lanes to squeeze between a delivery truck and a city bus.
The SUV didn't follow.
For now.
Her thoughts drifted to the hospital scandal.
