Chapter 3 - The Ambush at Baggage Claim
The jet bridge was a blur of fluorescent lights and rushing passengers. As soon as we stepped into the terminal, three men in identical dark grey suits stepped out from the shadows, flanking Noah immediately.
"Mr. Whitman, the vehicle is waiting at the lower level VIP tarmac," the lead guard, a mountain of a man named Marcus, said rapidly. "But we have a visual on the individual at Baggage Claim 4. He's actively tracking the arrivals monitor."
"We're changing the route, Marcus," Noah ordered, never slowing his pace as he kept his arm subtly positioned behind my back, shielding Lily from the crowds. "We're taking the service elevator directly to the private garage. And Marcus? If the husband attempts to breach the perimeter, handle it."
"Understood, sir."
We walked fast, the wheels of my folded stroller clattering against the polished terrazzo floors. But O'Hare was too massive, and Ryan had apparently spent his time well. As we rounded the corner toward the elevators overlooking the main baggage carousel, a sharp, familiar voice shattered the terminal noise.
"Emily!"
I froze. Fifty feet away, standing near the escalators, was Ryan. He looked exactly like the man who had ruined my life—wearing an expensive golf polo, his hair perfectly gelled, his face twisted into an expression of theatrical, self-righteous anger. He was flanked by two airport police officers he had clearly manipulated with a sob story.
"There she is!" Ryan shouted, pointing a finger at me as he marched forward. "Officers, that's my wife! She took our daughter out of the state without my permission! She's unstable!"
The two police officers stepped forward, their hands moving instinctively toward their belts. "Ma'am, please stop where you are."
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My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt the old, paralyzing fear creeping up my throat. For four years, Ryan's voice had been the law in my world.
Then Noah stepped in front of me.
