Page 71 of Ruthless Touch

Neither of us get to react to the other. We’ve created enough noise to alert Lieutenant Rhee, who goes still in his stall before shouting, “Who’s there? Whose feet are those under the door?”

The lock clicks, and then a split second later he’s cursing in Korean and rounding the corner with his own weapon drawn. He fires wildly in our direction, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Black suits! BLACK SUITS ARE HERE! CHEONGRYONG!”

Gun’s hand closes around mine like a vise. Suddenly we’re running, bursting from the restroom as doors to the private karaoke rooms begin opening and confused faces—drunken men and startled lounge girls—peer out to see what’s causing the commotion.

I try to wrench my arm from his grip, but he refuses to let go as we race toward the nearest emergency exit, bullets whizzing past our heads and shattering mirrors and glass sconces along the corridor walls.

Behind us, Lieutenant Rhee’s voice rises above the chaos, screaming at every soldier to kill us.

To do everything they can to ensure we don’t make it out alive.

Yet another assassination attempt gone awry. Yet another attempt thwarted by Rhee Gun-woo.

Now he’s the only thing standing between me and the retaliation his father screams about.

But I’m not one to rely on anybody but myself, and that hasn’t changed even now.

“Let me go!” I yell, still trying to wrench my arm from Gun’s iron grip.

He doesn’t even slow down. He snaps at me from over his shoulder. “Shut up and follow my lead!”

If it were any other person, any other moment, I’d tell him exactly where he can shove his orders. Then I’d knee him in the crotch to emphasize my point.

More bullets streak past us and signal now is not the time. For once in my life, I’m going to have to let someone else take control.

Gun leads us to a sleek black and blue sports bike parked in the shadows between two buildings, its chrome gleaming under the streetlights. I hesitate for a split second, but he’s already swinging his leg over the seat and revving the engine.

“Hop on and hold tight!” he shouts over the roar of the commotion. “Now, Goyangi!”

I swing my leg over the back of the bike just as the whole crew of Cheongryong soldiers emerges from a side door of the karaoke lounge. Their weapons are drawn, and their faces are twisted by bloodthirst.

Gun doesn’t wait for me to get settled before he slams the bike into gear and rockets us into the Gangnam’s streets.

Neon lights streak past us in brilliant blurs of pink, yellow, blue, and blinding white. The cool air whips through my thick braids and makes them flutter behind me like a cape.

I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on for dear life, cheek pressed against his leather jacket.

He weaves between cars with reckless abandon that’s almost admirable if not fucking crazy.

Several times it feels like we’re about to become street food—Gun taking turns so sharp the bike nearly goes horizontal, diving down alleyways so narrow I question if we’ll get stuck.

But somehow he keeps us going, jetting out on the other side.

The Cheongryong aren’t giving up easily. Through the mirrors, I can see them tailing us in a massive black SUV and two smaller motorcycles. Their headlights are blinding as they chase after us like we’re prey to be hunted.

More gunfire erupts as they try to nail us.

Gun responds by doing something completely insane.

He turns down a crowded promenade full of late-evening shoppers. They scream and scatter in all directions, diving for cover as we rocket through the plaza.

One of the shoppers freezes in horror as they try to cross to safety and then wind up in the path of one of the motorcycles following us.

The Cheongryong rider panics too, swerving left and crashing into a shop window. Glass explodes everywhere, designer handbags and mannequins among the debris.

The SUV appears through a side street, clearly undeterred by their partner going down.