Postscript

“We know the jet she chartered out of D.C. landed fifteen minutes after takeoff out of Reagan, Agent Randolph—before our scrambled jets could get a lock on her.”

“To a hick airport in another state where she ditched her jet for a puddle jumper.”

“Not fast enough. She hopscotched from D.C. to West Virginia, to Tennessee, to Alabama, to southern Georgia, to southern Florida, always ahead of us, flying illegally without flight plans or transponders, staying low, beneath radar. We are certain she landed in Cuba seventy-five minutes ago.”

“An asset in place put eyes on her, but we don’t believe she stayed long. If her layover was like the others, she had a plane on the runway, fueled and ready to go as soon as she touched down, likely a jet. But to get that kind of service from Cuba? The woman has to have both money and some serious ‘friends’ in high places.”

“Not yet, but wherever it is, we doubt it’s her final stop. She will change planes again to make tracing her next to impossible.”

WINNIE DELANCEY TOOK her first easy breath since the harrowing flight from D.C. Her faithful (and well compensated) bodyguards were seated at the front of the chartered Learjet 35A as they descended into Mexico City. They would deplane and spend the night in the city. The following day, her men would charter an innocuous plane for the next leg of their journey. Their destination tomorrow would be San Jose, Costa Rica, and after that, on to Caracas, Venezuela—although they were not likely to stay long.

Winnie used her knuckles to knead at the ache behind her eyes. Ah, Simon, my love. What will I do now? We came so close to destroying America, so close to bringing to its knees the nation that has driven so many nations into the dust. Was it all for nothing?

It was not that she lacked resources. No. But, for the first time in her life, she lacked purpose.

I am sixty-seven years old, and in good health. We were on the cusp of attaining our dreams, and I had so much to look forward to! And now? Now what will I do?

If only I’d had one day longer to secure the nanomites, to transfer them to me . . . what personal power I would wield! With the nanomites, I could find another way to achieve our dream.

Minutes later, the bump of wheels contacting the runway announced their arrival. They taxied to a private gate, and a steward unlatched and lowered the Learjet’s steps. Her men stood to escort her from the plane.

On the tarmac, one of them forged ahead to secure a taxi. The other stayed with Winnie and cleared a path for her through the teeming terminal.

Within an hour, her guards had checked them into a modest hotel suite under false passports. She had them order room service for herself and for them. After they had eaten, her men would go out to locate a plane for tomorrow’s flight.

Winnie had the waiter take her food to her room. She locked the door and stayed there until morning.

SHE AROSE AFTER A RESTLESS night. Her guards assured her that they had chartered a luxury Cessna Caravan turboprop plane that seated 10, and that it was prepared to leave as soon as they returned to the airport.

“It is a comfortable plane with nice amenities. They will provide breakfast if you like,” one of them told her.

They returned to the airport, cleared the security screening, and were ushered to their gate by their flight attendant, a striking, middle-aged brunette. “This way, please,” she murmured, leading them through the gate and up the short flight of steps.

Winnie gave a cursory inspection to the plane’s lavish upholstery and carpets as she stepped through the roll-up door. She was tired and irritable, aware that her clean change of clothes should have been pressed. She retired to the back of the plane where she could be alone and left her men to oversee the details. While she waited for the plane to taxi and takeoff, she browsed international news on her phone.

The headlines were only about the newly confirmed Vice President’s sudden stroke and death and how the Secret Service had rushed the President to Walter Reed—as a precaution only.

That should have been you, Robert Jackson, she ground out under her breath. You were to die, not Simon. At this moment, Simon should be President—and after him, me!

Apparently, the President was keeping Winnie Delancey’s fugitive status from the media, for there was not a breath of it anywhere. How long could that last? The condolences would pour in—and with no one to receive them and no public sightings of the grieving widow to be had, the media would soon question where she was.

Her bodyguards entered the plane and the flight attendant closed and sealed the door. As the plane ran down the runway and lifted, Winnie laid her head back.

SHE MUST HAVE SLEPT. As she roused herself, she checked her phone. Two hours of sleep, but two hours would sustain her for a while.

She lifted the window shade and stared below. The sun shone from behind the starboard wing, casting a glow on the water below.

It has been years since I have been to Costa Rica or Venezuela. I wonder how changed they are.

Winnie blinked. The morning sun was behind them to the east, but the plane should have been flying south—with the sun on their port side. And the water below them? It stretched into the horizon, but they should be flying over land.

The flight attendant stood, and Winnie shouted to her. “Are we going the wrong direction?”

The attendant walked toward Winnie, her steps slow, languorous, sensual. A far cry from deferential and servile.

Winnie felt the need to meet this woman on her feet. She stood and clutched the arm of her seat. “We are going the wrong way. Please inform the pilot and alter course.”

The attendant’s English was clear, but her diction and syntax spoke of Mexican gentility and of a pricey education. “I am afraid, Señora Delancey, that we have had a change of itinerary.”

“We are, at present, quite close to my home, Culiacán, which is not far from the Pacific Ocean.”

Winnie studied the attendant. “Apparently, someone has offered you a great deal of money for me. Whatever they are paying you, I can pay you more.”

The woman spread her hands. “It is not about money, señora; it is about honor.”

Winnie steeled herself, commanded her body not to panic. She told herself to breathe, to look for the opening she needed, but her fatigue made her a bit unsteady on her feet. She grasped the seat in front of her.

“If it is not about money, perhaps you are interested in what money cannot always buy. I have a great many secrets, and I am certain that in your line of . . . business, secrets may be traded for influence or for power.”

The woman lifted her chin and appeared interested. “Sí, I enjoy power. What kind of secrets might you have that could acquire for me more power?”

Winnie smiled as with a fellow conspirator. “A technological breakthrough, my dear, a scientific advance with limitless potential. A technology that can actually . . . render a woman invisible. Think of the possibilities.”

“Invisible? Truly?” The woman’s lush lips parted; her eyes glowed. She closed the gap between them and reached out a hand to Winnie’s arm to steady her.

Something pricked Winnie’s arm, and the attendant’s lips curved with mocking humor. “Tell me, Señora Delancey, does such an invisible woman also call the fire of the gods into her hands? Does she gather the lightning to herself and cast it upon her enemies? Can she create the storm around her and bring down the wrath of the heavens?”

“It grieves me to tell you this, señora, but I have already met such a woman. I must say, too, that I do not wish to ever meet her again.”

“May I help you, señora? You are weak, no? Come. Let me assist you to the front of the plane.”

Winnie let the attendant lead her toward the front of the plane—not that she could have resisted. She found that her feet and hands would not respond well to her commands.

The copilot emerged from the cockpit, and the attendant addressed Winnie’s bodyguards, then the copilot.

“Gentlemen, please ensure that your seatbelts are secure. Joachim, the altitude, por favor?”

“A neuromuscular blocking agent,” the attendant purred. “Quite painless, I’m told, and it passes in a few hours.”

She and the man assisting her helped each other don harnesses that were fixed to the bulkhead. Winnie grunted but could not move. Neither of her bodyguards would look at her. One of them shook and trembled.

The attendant and copilot unlatched the roll-up door and, in a single, fluid movement, rolled it up and across the inside of the plane’s ceiling. The plane’s slipstream tugged and pulled at them, but they were safely harnessed to the bulkhead.

Winnie was not. She stared out the gaping hole, seeing her death before her, hearing Jayda Cruz’s words above the roar of the wind.

On the day of your death, you will come face to face with God Almighty. If you stand before the Lord without Jesus, you will face his righteous justice. I’m warning you now to confess your sins and turn to Jesus—before it is too late for you.

The attendant murmured, “Our family loves its excitement as well as its luxury. Skydiving is a favorite pastime.”

She and the copilot grasped Winnie’s arms and positioned her in the threshold.

The woman said, “I will not say vaya con Dios, señora. He is, after all, not likely to go with you, although you may meet him at the end of your passage.”

Winnie could not move a muscle even as she tumbled, end over end, toward the blue water stretching up to meet her.

ESPERANZA DUVALL STUDIED—FOR at least the fifteenth time—the cryptic text she’d received late the previous afternoon. She’d been obliged to move quickly, to have her people fuel one of her family’s planes and fly it from Culiacán to Mexico City, and then locate and reach out to the woman’s bodyguards.

The way to an agreement, smoothed by four guns pointed at their heads, had been quick and satisfactory. She had given them each one hundred thousand dollars in cash and the promise of their freedom at the end. Faced with certain death now or the uncertain hope that she would honor her word later, the guards had chosen the latter. Esperanza’s men had watched their hotel all night to ensure that their cooperation did not falter.

It had not been a bad bargain, Esperanza admitted. She had recouped more cash from Winnie Delancey’s bag than what she had expended to complete her task. Above all that, she had satisfied a debt of “honor.”

Esperanza Duvall

We gave you Arnaldo Soto

His kidneys saved your uncle’s life

We wish a favor in return

A monster who cannot be allowed to live

Mexico City 10 pm

A photo of Winnie Delancey, the wife of the newly deceased U.S. Vice President, was attached to the text—as was a photo of a Learjet’s tail number.

Esperanza, remembering her encounter with the woman who threw fire and lightning from her fingers and who launched a line of vehicles into a deadly rain of burning scrap metal and glass, shivered. She touched “reply” and typed a short sentence: El favor ha sido devuelto.

She pressed “send” and glanced a last time at her phone before pulling the sim card and snapping it in two.