Mike Maden - River of Gods

She softened, turned around. “I know. You are a good man. But you are determined to leave. If you left and thought she was yours, you would feel guilty for being away, perhaps come back. Now you can go with a clear conscience.”

“I hate leaving without the two of you.”

She touched his face. Searched his eyes. “And yet, you choose it.”

“So do you.”

“I am who I am as well.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

He held her close, whispered in her ear. “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

She nodded. “And you as well, you fool.”

Pearce held her tightly. He smelled the summer in her hair. The last light of the sun was falling behind the jagged ridgeline, throwing shadows on the lake.

It would be night soon.

Cayo Grande

Los Roques Archipelago, Venezuela

1 July

Jasmine dug her toes into the blinding white sand, admiring the intense clarity of the blue Caribbean. The warm sun caressed her skin, darkening it nicely. Even the mint in her mojito was particularly sweet. The weekend trip to the idyllic Venezuelan island was a first little present to herself, the promise of still better things to come.

She wished she could have seen Fiero’s face when the senator received the envelope. Fiero always knew the time would come, but foolishly assumed that Bath would telegraph her departure date. Events had spun out of control. Myers and her team had gotten too close and knew Bath was after them—otherwise, why would Myers have fled the cabin? That left too many loose ends. Loose ends that could be twisted into a noose to hang her with.

CIOS had been the source of Jasmine’s strength, but on the run, it posed her greatest threat. The only way her enemies could ever find her is if they pointed it back in her direction. She’d been exceedingly careful to minimize her digital footprint while still at CIOS, and then obliterated what little there was of it when she bolted.

The humans in her network posed the biggest risk. An automated kill switch wiped them away, too. Skeets was the last. Yesterday’s coded notice in El Nacional confirmed it. Jasmine’s last contract killer was dead.

She’d gone completely off the grid, of course, and dove deep into the analogue weeds. Paid for everything in cash, living a modest, prearranged fictional life in Caracas, unnoticed in its large Afro-Latin population. Hid her marvelous hair in braids, and her stunning almond eyes behind a pair of Ray-Bans.

Venezuela suited her perfectly. The anti-Yanqui Maduro government would never honor an American extradition request for her were one ever made. Frequent blackouts, street protests, and other social ills were a tolerable nuisance in the otherwise modern capital, but they were also a benefit, keeping the failing socialist government too busy to attempt finding someone like her, were they so inclined.

It suddenly occurred to her that the greatest crimes ever committed were the ones never discovered. Jasmine wondered where her achievements would rank on that infamous, unknowable list. She smiled. Took another sip of her mojito. No one could touch her now.

She was free.

Aviation Mission Fellowship Station

near Mwinilunga, Zambia

Pearce tossed Whit Bissel the keys to the brand-new Cessna bush plane parked on the grassy apron in front of the hangar. The motor ticked, still hot from its recent flight. They stood next to it, admiring its lines.

“I don’t know what to say.” The beefy blond missionary still wore his oily coveralls and the same wire-rimmed glasses.

“Don’t say anything. It was easier to buy you this than telling you I’m sorry for the way I acted, which I am.”

“That plane’s worth a lot more than the avgas you borrowed from me before.”

“You mean stole from you, not borrowed,” Pearce said. “I bought the plane in Jo’Berg. There’s a Cessna dealer down there.”

“I heard about your friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“His name was Mike Early,” Judy said. “He was my friend, too.” She was walking up from Whit’s house carrying a tray with glasses of tea. “How does she fly?”

“Better than the pilot,” Pearce said.

“But you’re the pilot. That’s not saying much.” Judy grinned. She’d taught him how to fly. He was actually pretty good at it, just not as good as she was. “What’s wrong with your hand?” She nodded at the bandage wrapped around his left hand.

“This? Nothing. Just a little cut.”

“Those are the worst,” Whit said, sipping his tea. “Especially paper cuts. They really sting.”

Judy gave Pearce the stink eye. “You know lying’s a sin, right?”

“I’m a sinner, all right. But I’m not lying.”

He wasn’t. It really was a cut—from Guo’s combat knife. Pearce had used it to open up the Asian’s belly, then plunge it through his throat and pin him to a tree. Pearce could still hear the frenzied hyenas whining and yelping as they fed on the dying operator.

Pearce reached for a glass of tea. “Thanks. Cheers.”

Judy set the tray down on a workbench just inside the hangar. She walked back past the Cessna. Saw something in the tail’s vertical stabilizer.

“Hey, there’s a bullet hole.”

Pearce and Whit got closer.

Whit nodded. “Sure looks like one.”

Judy and Whit turned to Pearce. He shrugged. “Yes, it is.”

“And?” Judy asked.

“I’ll call Comair. They can fly someone up from Jo’Berg and fix it.”

“No need. That’s an easy patch job,” Whit said. He headed back to the far end of the hangar to grab some tools.

Judy leaned in close. Whispered. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“What you don’t need to worry about. Everything’s fine.”

“You sure? You’re okay?”

“Better than okay. I promise.”

Pearce really was feeling pretty damn good. Ian’s intel, as usual, had been dead-on. He found Guo and his men in the DR Congo aiding a regional warlord in exchange for a diamond mine contract. Pearce took out Guo’s men with single shots to the head before turning Guo to dog food. A twofer, as far as Pearce was concerned.

“How about you?”

Judy smiled. “It’s good here.”

“Any chance you coming back?”

“Do you know why I left the first time?”

“I have an idea.”

“I lost faith in a lot of things, including humanity. People suck.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But when I walked into that bar? I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I don’t regret doing it, because you’re my friend and Mike was in trouble. But after he died and you nearly got killed, I woke up.”

“To what?”

“I’ve been running for a long time. Especially when I was working for you. Don’t get me wrong, it was great, but it was still running. It’s time to stop running.”

“The God stuff?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

“Still friends, though. Right?”

Judy threw her arms around his neck. “You’ll always be my friend. I just can’t do what you do anymore.”

Pearce held on tight. “You ever need anything, you call, you hear?”

A truck horn blasted in the distance.

“’Bout dang time.” Pearce checked his watch.

“Africa time.” Whit laughed, walking up. He tossed a toolbox in the grass.

A big diesel fuel truck pulled onto the long grassy airstrip, followed by a flatbed truck carrying a big empty plastic storage tank.