Part 4: The Airport Standoff
I didn’t call the police right away—there wasn’t enough time to explain three years of financial fraud to a dispatcher. Instead, I called my cousin Leo, who worked as a senior customs officer at Terminal 2, and sped toward the airport like a woman possessed.
When I arrived at the international departures hall, the crowd was thick, but the sweet, overwhelming aroma of that expensive cologne was unmistakable. I followed the scent toward the VIP lounge entrance.
There he was. Mark was leaning heavily against a pillar, looking incredibly pale, sweaty, and exhausted, clutching a briefcase to his chest. Standing next to him was Caroline, holding two passports and looking at him with deep disgust as he visibly winced from another wave of stomach cramps.
Advertisements
“Mark!” I yelled, my voice cutting through the terminal noise.
They both spun around. Mark’s eyes widened in sheer terror. He tried to bolt toward the security line, but his body betrayed him. A sharp spike of pain in his abdomen made him double over, dropping the briefcase flat onto the shiny airport floor.
