“He is pulling out another card.”

“He looks agitated, Detective.”

“He keeps looking over his shoulder toward the security checkpoint.”

Sullivan stood up from his chair.

“Move in, Miller,” Sullivan said. “Do not let him leave the desk.”

“Understood,” Miller said. “Port Authority units are positioning now.”

I leaned forward, ignoring the sharp pull of the skin on my neck.

“Please,” I whispered. “Don’t let him run.”

“He won’t run far,” Sullivan said.

The radio crackled again.

“He knows something is wrong,” Miller said, his voice tense.

“The agent is keeping his passport.”

“Target is backing away from the counter.”

“He is running toward the exit doors.”

“We are moving in.”

Over the radio, I could hear the faint, chaotic sounds of the airport terminal.

There were distant shouts, the rumble of luggage wheels, and the echo of a public address announcement.

“Stop! Police!” a voice yelled through the static.

I heard the sound of heavy footsteps running on hard tile.

Then, a loud crash.

“We have him down,” Miller’s voice came through, breathless.

“Target is on the ground near the baggage carousel.”

“He is resisting.”