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CIRCUMSTANCES HAD BACKED Liz into a tight corner with no exit. With any luck, she would find Jack before anyone else did. Except her luck ran out a long time ago.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to bang her fists bloody. She wanted to change her name, dye her hair, get lost. But here she was, Elizabeth Marie Langdon, daughter of an overbearing father and an alcoholic mother, the middle child of two silly sisters, and more ambitious than a big-busted blonde at a sales convention. When she thought back over her years with government, she saw herself as doe-eyed and eager. Her brilliant career was always just a grasp away. Colleagues exalted her as a powerhouse. They said she had a brilliant future. They counselled her with advice, lifted her up with praise, sometimes took her down with constructive criticism. Women resented her for her beauty. Men resented her for being aloof.

The advice was hollow, the praise ingratiating, and the criticism destructive. And hell, she had no control over her looks. It was a curse from the gods, who daily laughed at her from the other side of the looking glass. As for men, there was only one love of her life, and he wasn’t the marrying kind, damn him to hell.

Better than anyone, she understood the truth about herself. She wasn’t the person they thought she was. She wasn’t as intelligent or confident or talented or morally centered as she appeared to be. She wasn’t as conniving or underhanded or manipulative as some believed her to be. Yet she was the one who had risen in the ranks and earned the respect of her superiors. Working long hours and sleeping very little compensated for any weaknesses. Her colleagues admired her for her composure, but like everything else, it was only a pretense. Inside, she was a quaking, churning mess.

After taking over the job tragically vacated by John Sessions—her mentor and backstop—she set to work. Feeling at loose ends without her key supporter, she researched everything there was to know about Jack Coyote. Not Jack Coyote, the lover of her youthful days. Or Jack Coyote, the wanton killer. But Jack Coyote, the traitor. She poured over the money trail provided by MonCom. Looked up his friends and colleagues, and hammered them for rumors, suspicions, and associations. Hunted down former lovers and interrogated them for salacious accounts, innocent comments, frequented retreats, suspicious acquaintances, and questionable activities. Brushed up on the women killed in the Caymans, further proof of Jack’s depravities and corruption. Combed the internet and social media sites for any hint of his whereabouts. Signed up with hacking communities and followed forums for mentions, innuendos, and sightings. Read classified reports of operations and suspicious activities from around the world, as far afield as Tunisia, Azerbaijan, Timbuktu, and Somalia. Scoured international newspapers and obscure websites. Combed manifests of airlines, ships, and private air charters. Jack had simply vanished. Maybe he was dead. She could only hope.

So concentrated was she on the task at hand, co-workers walked wide circles around her. They were growing fearful of her. It was to laugh at, if it weren’t so tragic.

Yes, she had gone to the dark side alongside Camilla and Angie. Yes, living inside a pressure cooker was intense. Yes, she was betraying the man she loved. Yes, she was coming to believe every dirty piece of intel that cast him as an enemy of the people. Yes, she examined her conscience, that inner core that said she wasn’t this person at this moment, she was only playing a part to gain the trust of her overlords. Yes, she was pursing Jack with single-minded determination. Yes, the stress was getting to her. Yes, she was losing her soul if she hadn’t already lost it.

Once, she couldn’t remember when, she felt like a normal person. She got over it. Or almost over it, she told herself countless times. And still she went on with a determination that scared even her.

After days of bitter coffee and cheap wine and worthless sleeping pills and fits of temper, her preoccupation with John Jackson Coyote finally paid off. An online article under the banner of an Australian newspaper sketched the story of a mysterious hijacking at sea off the coast of a remote South Pacific island. The incident ended with the murder of a female passenger who headed a local bank. Though the yacht’s captain was initially reported as a second victim, he miraculously survived. The bank where the woman worked was leveled to the ground by arson. And the boyfriend of the dead woman—an American going by the name of John Fox—had been held for questioning but was released soon thereafter, disappearing to parts unknown.

She knew then with certainty that he was following the money. If she followed the money, too, she could set a trap. With the thought, she sat back, a smile sweeping across her mouth.