Jun-ho answered on speakerphone. Ezequiel's voice came through fast, heavy with the typical urgency of someone managing crises in real time.
— Jun-ho. — Ezequiel's voice sounded strained, as if he were about to propose a terrible idea to Jun-ho. — We have a code red situation underway. A parallel hostage rescue operation in the port zone. We need a Class A combatant.
There was a split-second pause on the line. Ezequiel knew exactly who was in the passenger seat of that car.
— Salin is with you, isn't he? He's a Class A.
Jun-ho frowned, bothered by the older man's suggestive tone.
He took his right hand off the steering wheel for an instant and placed it firmly on Salin's thigh, squeezing hard. The fabric of the pants gave way under the pressure of Jun-ho's possessive fingers, a gesture that blended the pure instinct of keeping him safe in his orbit with the inevitable acknowledgment of reality.
