Page 116 of Ruthless Touch

He breaks into a run, shoving people aside as he abandons his place in line and bolts toward the nearest exit.

TWENTY-FIVE

ELISE

Uncle Jerald isfast for a man in his fifties.

He weaves through the crowd, zigging and zagging as necessary.

But I’m faster. I’mfurious.

So angry I’ve spent a lifetime trusting Unc when he never deserved it in the first place.

My boots pound against airport tile as I chase him through the terminal, Gun half a step behind me. People scatter, luggage topples, someone screams.

Uncle Jerald glances back over his shoulder, eyes wide with panic and desperation. He knows we’re not letting him get away with this.

Not if we have any say in the matter. Not if we’re still alive and breathing.

“STOP!” I shout.

He doesn’t slow down. He merely presses on, dodging travelers in his path.

A fork in the terminal comes up. Left for the international gates. Right for domestic.

Airport security spills out of a side door, radios crackling, hands reaching for their batons. Their gazes are set on us, like we’re the troublemakers.

Gun barks at them in Korean—private intelligence on intercept—his tone so commanding, so official, they hesitate long enough for us to blow past them.

Uncle Jerald hits a restricted door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and shoulders through it. The alarm screams to life, shrill and piercing.

“Split up!” Gun shouts, already vaulting over a barrier with feral determination. “I’ll cut him off on the other side!”

I don’t argue with his plan.

I slam past the same door Uncle went through, taking two, even three, stairs at a time. My lungs burn and adrenaline courses in my veins. I’m so focused, so set on our target that no physical pain or discomfort like my lungs coming short on air even registers.

The stairwell is concrete. Every hard footstep of ours ricochets off the walls.

Mine and Uncle’s as we both scramble up as if in a race against the clock.

Above me, a door crashes open. Outdoor light floods in.

I burst through a couple seconds after him onto an isolated rooftop that overlooks the Incheon tarmac.

Uncle Jerald stumbles to a stop at the chain-link fencing that marks the edge, cordoning off this rooftop from the next with a construction sign.

His chest heaves, sweat slicking his face as it dawns on him he’s got nowhere left to run.

He’s trapped between the sky and the drop below as I come up the rear.

“Don’t move!” I yell, drawing my gun. My aim is steady despite the fury rattling me from the inside.

He slowly turns, hands rising in surrender. But the flicker of amusement on his face says differently.

It tells me he’s surrendering no sooner than he’ll apologize for what he’s done.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “You came all this way to hear me say it, huh?”