How a Dying Woman Rewrote Her Epilogue

Jarrod could tell his message had gotten through. He glanced in the rearview mirror and gave a crisp order to the bodyguard at the wheel. "Ten o'clock. Step on

it."

The bodyguard didn't hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas, and the SUV shot forward.

From behind, Quinn caught on that Jarrod was still trying to get away. He popped up from the sunroof, megaphone in hand, his voice amplified and echoing down the empty road. "Sir! You clearly know why I'm here. Why don't we stop and have a civilized conversation?"

He was enjoying the chase-relishing every second of watching his prey run out of options.

And this prey was none other than the famous Jarrod.

In their circles, that name was practically legendary. Among the younger generation, there weren't many who could make headlines and land on prestigious lists. Jarrod was one of the few.

Quinn knew exactly how this would end.

Jarrod had no way out.

Betrayed by someone close, he figured Jarrod must have been feeling desperate.

If not for Jarrod, Quinn might never have realized just how many disasters his Sylvie had stumbled into. And what really infuriated him was that Jarrod had managed to drag a woman Quinn hadn't even gotten his hands on into this mess, making her untouchable. The frustration burned in his gut.

He wasn't about to let this loss go unanswered.

Quinn's voice, cold and mocking, through the megaphone. He swept a frosty glare across the rearview

laughed. "Still running? I've got people everywhere, Sir. You'd be better off stopping

His confidence was palpable.

But it didn't last.

thought he could make out the faint thrum of helicopter blades-coming from

pale. "Shit... Hurry! He's got

had already reached

and the bodyguard jumped out of the car, sprinting across

a quick pickup. When he spotted Jarrod and a Western man running toward him, he cast a glance

the rotors whipped

didn't slow for a

the helicopter

instant, Fleming's voice crackled through the

of the helicopter and vaulted inside. A bullet grazed his cheek, slamming

the cabin,

before Fleming pulled the controls, and the

gunfire and engines

ragged breath, clutching his chest. His injuries hadn't

looked up at Fleming and managed a strained,

around. "Fleming.