英文有声《第43条疤痕》三部曲

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Prologue
She moved in a crouch, blade between her teeth, all four limbs connected to the earth. 
She cocked her head, listened, and then continued on again, through the undergrowth and past the body at her bare feet.
Along the jungle floor, shadows cast against shadows, playing tricks with light, 
and unnatural stillness replaced the buzz and chatter of the canopy, as if nature held its breath while bearing witness to the violence.
She paused at the whisper of air that alerted her to movement from behind.
They’d been smart to track so silently.
She shifted, ready to face them when they came.
And they would come.
The knowledge brought with it a surge of adrenaline.
Euphoria followed.
Two emerged from the verdure, dressed in shoddy camouflage and rubber shoes, carrying no firearms, only knives. 
They came steadily, circling, hunting, eyes glazed with bloodlust, lips turned up in snarls. 
They wanted her dead, and so they must die.
She breathed deeply, focus pure, measuring the strength of the threat. 
Awareness came in waves, a feral instinct that returned nuance with radarlike clarity. 
Understanding their weaknesses, she launched forward for the first strike.
Connected.
A scream shattered the calm.
Off balance, the first attacker toppled, and in a fluid movement she twisted, pushing off his body to propel herself into the second man.
He shifted to avoid impact, and the twist of his neck met the slice of her outstretched blade.
He fell.
She landed in a crouch and without pause returned to the first. Hand to head. Knife to neck. Swift, through tendons and sinew.
The fight had taken only seconds, and now in the silence the kill was finished. 
She stood over the bodies, the sound of her own heartbeat loud in her ears, and after a moment of hesitation she swore. It had been too fast. Too easy.
Her chest heaved in hatred of the skills that kept her alive, skills that drove her to win, skills that inevitably brought death.
She dropped to her knees and there, for the first time, stared at the face of the nearest hunter. 
A vise of recognition gripped her heart. She fell forward onto the body.
His open eyes were green. His hair was blond, his face longingly familiar.
Her soul pounded a rhythm: Please not him. Not him. Not him.
In death, his eyes fixed a piercing accusation. 
She gaped in mute horror at the liquid of life that had, in seeping from his neck, painted her skin crimson.
She couldn’t breathe. Dizzy. Suffocating. Nausea.
She found air. 
It came as a burning rush into collapsing lungs, a scream that started from the depths of her soul and ripped through her vocal cords, shattering the stillness, sending a flurry of beating wings through the canopy.
Head tilted upward, and with the primal shriek of rage and pain still rising, she opened her eyes. 
Not to the jungle roof but to her bedroom ceiling, patterned, whitewashed, and tinged with the color of dawn coming through the window.
Vanessa Munroe gasped. Curtains in the room rustled lightly. 
The call to prayer sounded from minarets across the city and her hand was still gripping the handle of a knife plunged into the other side of the king-size mattress.
Awareness settled, and she let go of the knife as if scalded, rolling off the bed in the same movement.
She stared.
The blade had struck twice and stood in silent witness to the increasing ferocity of the nightmares. 
The sheets were soaked with sweat. She glanced at her tank top and boxers. Drenched. 
And Noah, had he not left for work early this morning, would have been dead.

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epilogue
I-35, Austin to Dallas
From inside the helmet, the world’s sounds took on a muted distance. 
There was that and the rush of wind and the vibration of power that rumbled through her body as the bike whined across the miles. 
Munroe was headed north, up from San Antonio and Texas’s hill country, back into the flat of Dallas, where she was scheduled to meet with Miles Bradford later in the day.
She’d left him in Paris with the promise to look him up in a few weeks’ time, 
and though the few had stretched into several, she knew that he knew by way of Logan that she was all right. 
She could have made the effort to see him when she’d first returned to Dallas but had needed the distance of time and space to purge the venom from her system and grieve Francisco’s death.
More difficult was coming to terms with the decision to allow Breeden’s treachery to go unpunished. 
It somehow seemed that in choosing to allow her own soul to go free, Francisco’s memory had been betrayed, 
and there were still only a handful of days when Munroe hadn’t considered tracking down Breeden and finishing what should— in the laws of the jungle— rightfully have been done that night.
After leaving the hotel, she’d wandered aimlessly, long past the rising of the sun and the chaos of the lunch crowd and far into the afternoon rush hour before finally making her way to the Greyhound station and catching the next bus to the Mexican border. 
She’d left the United States on foot and returned to Paris out of Monterrey, Mexico, the next evening.
In what was perhaps one of her life’s only truly altruistic gestures, 
she’d taken Alain out of Paris to where the hustlers wouldn’t find him and committed him to a lockdown rehab facility, with the promise of an apartment and job if he remained clean for six months. 
She held no illusions about recidivism rates and the odds of the boy’s making it for the long term, 
but she’d given him a shot at a clean break. What he did with it was his own.
Munroe exited the freeway, turned off the access road, and rolled the bike into a parking lot adjacent to a twelve-story building. 
Capstone Consulting was located on the fifth floor, just one of the many midsize companies filling space in the North Dallas tower. 
But for the pair of muscle-bound bodies that exited the plate-glass doors of the office as she entered, Munroe would have seen no indication that the business was the mercenary outfit she knew it to be.
Bradford looked good, and his smile brought on a pang of guilt for having waited as long as she had to see him. 
Necessary business aside, this was closure, a proper way to conclude the strange bond forged between them, 
and so much better than the abrupt good-bye at Charles de Gaulle.
After a few moments of small talk, he handed her a slip of paper and said, “Transferred to the accounts you specified, the full five million as per the contract.”
She took the document and glanced over it.
“I assume you heard that Burbank’s dead,” Bradford said.
Munroe nodded and while skimming the page said, “Logan told me.”
“Have you heard about Kate Breeden?”
She stopped and looked up. “No,” she said. “I’ve been out of touch for a few weeks. What about her?”
“Let’s sit,” he said.
Munroe paused and after a brief hesitation took the chair that was to her right. 
Bradford sat opposite and swiveled so that he faced her directly. 
He was quiet for a moment and then leaned forward, elbows to knees. “Kate’s been implicated in Richard’s death.”
The news came unexpectedly, and Munroe took a deep breath. 
She’d walked out of the Alden that night, turning her back on whatever revenge was to be had, not considering that in failing to carry out the original plan, that by allowing Kate to live, 
she’d left behind the details of a crime scene that still set Kate up for murder. 
Munroe imagined for a moment how easy it would have been to have gotten away with it all.
“It’s still not certain that the DA is going to prosecute,” Bradford said. “But she has been charged. 
“According to my sources, they’ve got video surveillance of her entering and exiting Richard’s building around his estimated time of death, 
“her using her key card for the elevator, and her fingerprints and DNA are all over his place. The evidence is compelling.
“She denies killing him, of course, swears that she was set up, and she’s pointed the finger in your direction. 
“It’s possible there will be a few people interested in talking to you.” He paused for a moment. 
“There’s a weapon involved that does raise questions, and I figured you’d want the heads-up.”
“As far as I know,” Munroe said, “Burbank died when I was in Paris. Wasn’t it right after the board met?”
“Before.”
She shrugged. “Either way. I shouldn’t have any problem proving I was out of the country.”
Miles nodded. He opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He turned toward the window. 
“Look,” he finally said, “I know it’s not my place, but I think you deserve to know. 
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Kate intended to betray you. I’ve seen the photos, and the prosecution has seen the photos. 
“To you and me, it looks like she was sleeping with the enemy. To them it looks like she came after him out of jealousy. But it goes deeper.
“Burbank was blackmailing her, and she was playing the lover’s angle to try to mitigate the damage. 
“I suspect even she didn’t realize how deadly the information she gave him was.”
Munroe stared at him for a moment and finally, unable to hide the waver in her voice, said, “Burbank was blackmailing Kate?”
Bradford nodded again, lips pressed together.
Another pause and she said, “How do you know this?”
“It hasn’t been easy to piece together,” he said. “I had a man on the inside when the call on Burbank’s death came in, 
“and for the sake of deniability let’s just say I’ve had my ears open and leave it at that.
“It seemed wrong, you know, for a woman like Kate to betray you over a love affair, so I started digging.” 
Bradford handed Munroe a slim folder. “I’m still calling in favors, but I believe that this is what Burbank had on her.”
Munroe studied the pages, impressed by Bradford’s ability to see through the redundant to what was key, following the threads that he’d taken— a trail through an evil so dark that Richard Burbank was clean by comparison. 
“These were Kate’s clients?” she asked.
Bradford nodded. “She set up their corporate structures and kept them legal.”
“You’d make a good analyst.”
Bradford smiled a half smile. “Call it personal curiosity. And it does help to have worked so closely with Richard. 
“I knew where a lot of his skeletons were buried, and I knew how to locate what he wanted to hide. I admit it’s still a little sketchy, but it does tie together.”
Munroe glanced at the folder in her hands. “You don’t think she knew she was involved in this?”
Bradford shrugged. “She had to know something— how much is anyone’s guess. 
“You know better than I do that Kate is and has always been ruthless. That ruthless? Who’s to say? Maybe one day you can ask her.”
Munroe sighed. “In another lifetime.”
Bradford said, “With Kate pointing the finger in your direction, I made it a point to pay her a visit.
“I gave her a copy of what you have there in your hands and told her she was an idiot for choosing clients who would rather chop her up in little pieces than have word of their activity spread. 
“I may have also mentioned that I didn’t want to hear her talking about you anymore.”
Munroe gave a half grin of acknowledgment.
“That said,” he continued, “if I’m right, based on Richard’s notes, he’d already started tracking dirt on Kate before you took the assignment. 
“I think she knew he had something but didn’t know what until you arrived in Africa, because that’s when he began holding her feet to the fire.”
Munroe looked up at Bradford. “You know, it doesn’t change the fact that she sold me out, 
“but if he had this on her…” Munroe’s voice trailed off. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do it.”
Bradford simply nodded in reply. The silence settled, and he said, “I’ve heard from Emily.”
“How is she?”
“Alive— obviously— and doing surprisingly well. A complete turnaround in her situation.” 
Bradford handed Munroe a DVD. “This was in among the stuff Burbank had on Kate.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You found his blackmail stash, and that’s what he was using on Nchama?”
Bradford chuckled. “Yeah. And it gives events context in a weird sort of way. 
“Watching the footage, you’d think Nchama was being paid to finance an overthrow of the EG government.”
Munroe shook her head, stared out the window, and whispered, “A man risks his life to save it from the greater fear.”
Bradford nodded, said, “I’m returning to Equatorial Guinea at the end of the week in order to accompany Emily and the children home.” 
He paused. “I wondered if you’d be interested in coming along. I could use the help.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I think you can handle that one on your own.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, the country can be somewhat difficult to maneuver and the government difficult to deal with.” 
He winked that irresistible wink of his. “Truthfully, I’d love to have you there.”
“You’ll do fine,” she said. And what was left unspoken hung in the air.
When the silence grew awkward and stretched into minutes, Munroe stood and said, “I guess I’d better get going.” 
Bradford stood and reached to shake her outstretched hand. 
She drew him close and hugged him tight. “It’s hard to let you go,” she whispered, then pulled back and turned to walk away.
“What about you?” he said. “What’s next?”
She paused and looked over her shoulder. 
“Germany to tie up loose ends, then Morocco.” And for the first time in a long time, she smiled. “There’s someone I need to find.”

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chapter 23
Paris, France
Munroe stalked the streets, collar turned up, hands tucked deep into the pockets of the ankle-length coat she’d procured off a departing passenger at the airport. 
Even in the sun, the difference between the equatorial summer night and the mild Parisian winter morning was about sixty degrees, and it would have been a relief to return to the warmth and comfort of the room she’d secured at the Park Hyatt.
She moved decisively in the direction of Place Pigalle, the city’s chic red-light district famous for the Moulin Rouge, sex shops, and peep shows, its side streets and alleys notorious for so much more. 
The forces urging her onward were entirely her own; there were no voices, no anxiety, and the demons were silent. 
Her senses were overwhelmed by the thirst for revenge, 
and she paused for a moment and stood beside a wall, one leg kicked back against it for support while she studied passersby.
The intense focus on murder should have been disturbing, but she felt no conscience.
This was the abyss, that murky mental darkness she had so long held back one anxious breath at a time, though it wasn’t dark. 
Here it was light and freedom. It was total control and power and peace. 
And enveloped in this goodness was the knowledge that she had finally become the monstrosity of Pieter Willem’s making. 
His taunting laughter called out from the dead and was brushed aside as an inconvenient afterthought; 
all these years later he had won, and now she no longer cared.
Munroe thrust her hands deeper into the coat pockets and followed the sidewalk. 
Her eyes tracked random faces in the pedestrian crowd, her feet moved, and her mind churned in process and calculation. 
She crossed to rue Saint-Denis and spotted in a doorway, leaning against stone masonry as if unaware of solicitous glances paid by prospective clients, a body with a face that matched what she’d been searching for. 
He was a boy of seventeen or eighteen— prostitute, drug addict, child of the streets. Perfect alibi.
She walked a long diagonal path across the road and made eye contact; 
the boy straightened at her approach, his eyes sizing her up in a look disguised as interest. 
She was close enough now to breathe him in and allow the other senses to confirm what her eyes had already noted. 
Right height, right build, good facial features. Hair would need to be colored and shortened, but otherwise he would do. 
“I want you for a week,” she said. “Who do I need to talk to?”
Taking the boy off the streets meant having to negotiate with thugs, 
and Munroe followed him down an alley and up narrow tenement steps with her right hand wrapped around the weapon she’d carried out of Cameroon. 
There were moments when tension filled the run-down room, when money changed hands and avarice appeared to control mental faculties and a fight seemed inevitable, 
but in the end she stepped back into daylight without having to resort to threats or violence and with the boy trailing reticently behind.
She went as far as the end of the street, then turned and stopped. 
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him close, lifted his sleeves, searched for needle marks and bruises, found none; 
put her thumb to his chin and moved his head to the side, examining his skin. 
“What’s your drug of choice?” she asked.
“I don’t do drugs.”
“I don’t have fucking time to waste,” she said. “It’s not heroin, it’s not meth. What is it? Crack? Coke? Prescriptions?”
He mumbled an affirmative.
“You have a dealer?”
He nodded, and she tossed him a phone. “Call him.”
The boy’s first name was Alain, and Munroe didn’t catch his last, didn’t care to, didn’t need it. 
He was a breathing and functioning young male whom nobody would miss; it was all that mattered, 
and she’d be back to clean up this loose end long before the week expired.
Paying off the boy’s hustlers had been for his peace of mind, not hers. 
She wanted him unafraid, comfortable, willingly following instructions. 
And they were simple: Remain at the Park Hyatt and run up as large a bill as possible— 
room service, Internet shopping sprees, anything he wished so long as for that one week he received no visitors and did not set foot outside the hotel. 
Every day he did this, his drugs would be delivered to the room by front-desk staff believing they were handling business documents, 
the instructions given them having been far more detailed and explicit than those she gave him.
When Munroe left the hotel, Alain was fast asleep, 
and she’d made sure he would remain that way for the final few hours she’d be moving about town leaving the last traceable threads of her existence. 
At the bank she deposited her passport, ID, and credit cards in a safe-deposit box 
and walked out the door with only the forged Spanish passport in the name of Miguel Díaz and twenty thousand dollars.
She purchased a laptop, burned several copies of Emily’s recording to DVD, and sent two overnight to Logan for safekeeping. 
She stopped by a specialty electronics store to purchase harder-to-find items 
and then, after calling to confirm locations on Kate Breeden and Richard Burbank, left for the airport, where a charter waited to take her to London. 
From there the flight would route to Canada, and she would enter the United States on foot, then travel by road to Boston, where she would connect with a second charter and continue on to Houston.
Munroe spent the trip poring over documents she’d culled off the vastness of the Internet. 
Everything she knew about the Burbank assignment had passed through Kate Breeden, 
and as information was only as good as its source, everything was now suspect. 
Munroe read and jotted notes, her concentration broken only by the stops, starts, and connections of the journey. 
Time spent on the ground allowed her to follow threads and download additional files, 
and by the time the wheels of the last flight hit the tarmac in Houston, she knew exactly why Emily Burbank had been meant to die.
The eighteen-hour transit put Munroe on the ground a half day behind Miles Bradford and less than ten hours before the board of trustees was scheduled to meet. 
It was a narrow window of opportunity, and she counted on Burbank’s greed and Kate’s duplicity to hold them in place until after the board met.
From the airport Munroe caught a cab and stopped first at a pet store before heading downtown to the Alden, where a request at check-in netted the room adjacent to Breeden’s. 
As of yesterday this was where Kate had been staying, and although a prior call to the front desk had confirmed that she hadn’t checked out, it said nothing about her actual whereabouts. 
In an alcove off the lobby, Munroe switched from leather gloves to latex and dialed Breeden’s room, let the phone ring, and after getting no response, took the elevator up.
In the dark interior of her own room, Munroe removed the eyehole from the door, replaced it with a camera that fed into the laptop, 
and then for ease of egress depressed the door latch with a strip of tape. 
Preparations made, she lay next to the door with the laptop at her side, 
and when her head touched the floor, exhaustion that had previously gone unnoticed settled in. 
How long had it been since she’d slept? Thirty-two hours, thirty-seven?
Through two hours of numbing silence, Munroe fought to keep alert, and now, at two in the morning, there was still no sign of Breeden. 
Based on Logan’s surveillance photos, Munroe had been certain that Burbank wouldn’t have Kate stay overnight, 
but still, choosing the hotel had been a gamble that might have done nothing other than waste a perfect opportunity. 
Munroe was waging an internal debate over the emergency recourse of contacting Logan for an update when the soft vibrations of footfalls alerted her to a presence, 
and a few seconds later Kate’s profile filled the screen on the laptop.
Exhaustion was displaced by adrenaline, 
and Munroe was out the door, in the hallway, and standing behind Breeden with the weapon pressed into the woman’s spine before she’d had a chance to open her door. 
“Hello, Kate,” she said.
Breeden jumped slightly, put a hand on her chest, said, “Michael, you scared the bejesus out of me,” and fumbled with the handle. 
Munroe opened the door and shoved Kate inside, pointed toward the bed, and said, “Sit.”
Breeden remained standing. Slow and hesitant, she said, “No.” 
And then, with a bark of nervous laughter, “What are you going to do? Kill me?”
Munroe slammed the back of her hand against Breeden’s face, and the force of the blow knocked her to the bed. 
Kate looked up with shock in her eyes, and then with deliberation wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth. 
Munroe pressed the muzzle of the gun to Breeden’s forehead and said, “Yes. I’m going to kill you. 
“And the question you need to ask yourself is how much pain you’re willing to endure before you die, because you know I’m certainly capable of inflicting it.”
Munroe took a step back and tossed Breeden a roll of duct tape. “Around your ankles.” 
When Kate had finished, Munroe pushed her backward so that she was in the center of the bed. 
She wrapped the tape between Breeden’s ankles and then used it to anchor Breeden’s feet to the bed frame. 
When she had finished, Munroe stepped back and said, “Fucking touch the tape and I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap.”
Breeden sat, hugged her knees, and a tear trailed down the side of her face. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “What is it that you want from me?”
Munroe ignored the questions and picked Breeden’s purse up from the floor, fishing out the keys. “Which one goes to Richard Burbank’s house?”
A look of pained innocence crossed Kate’s face, and she said, “Why would you think I’ve got his keys?”
Munroe tossed an envelope onto the bed and watched for reaction as Breeden went through the eight-by-ten glossies. 
Breeden’s fingers held the photos lightly, flipped through them nonchalantly, 
and then there it was, thumb clamped tightly to a photo and a second of hesitation, and then another and another 
until the masked calm was replaced by true pain, and Munroe took the photos back and stuffed them into the envelope.
Breeden said, “Michael, this isn’t what it looks like … those photos. It’s not what you think.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Munroe said. “It only matters what is. 
“You fucking sold me out, Kate, to a man who cared less about his wife and daughter than he did about his Italian suits.”
Breeden’s face clouded over. She said, “What?” and Munroe held up the keys, jangled them. 
“You’ll save me… what? A minute? Two minutes? Which key is to his house?”
“The square brown one,” Breeden whispered.
Munroe laughed, hard and unfeeling. “I hope the betrayal was worth it.” She grabbed Breeden’s left wrist. 
Breeden struggled, and Munroe struck her again, then forced the wrist down onto the bed and, with the arm stretched out, wrapped the tape around it and anchored her to the side of the bed frame. 
Munroe took the other wrist and repeated the procedure so that Breeden was splayed like a crucifix. 
“So why’d you do it, Kate?” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Breeden said. 
Munroe snapped three leashes onto a choke chain, wrapped and knotted a length of one around Breeden’s feet, 
and repeated the procedure with the others around the wrists, then ran them under the bed, tested them for tension, and slipped the choke over Breeden’s head.
Kate’s eyes grew wide, and Munroe said, “I’m not going to kill you yet.”
Using a small penknife, she slit the taped anchors off Breeden’s ankles and wrists, removed the tape from the bed and balled it up, 
then leaned over Breeden and tugged on the choke, causing Breeden to gasp and struggle for air. 
Munroe released the pressure. “This little guy is attached to your hands and feet. 
“If you try to sit up, move your legs, or pull your arms, you’ll die slowly, strangled by your own struggle. You understand?”
Breeden nodded, and Munroe said, “Good.” She released the clip on the gun and removed the bullets. 
Wiped them down, pressed them against Breeden’s fingers, leaving a partial to solid print on each, and then returned them to the magazine. 
She could have gotten prints on the photos the same way, but provoking Breeden’s reaction had been so much more rewarding.
Munroe searched through the closet, and Breeden said, “You’re not going to be able to pull this off.”
The sweet, sadistic smile of Pieter Willem spread across Munroe’s face as she rifled through Breeden’s clothing. 
“Oh, Kate,” she said, “you know me so much better than that. Not only will I pull it off, I’m going to get away with it.” 
She removed a shoulder-length blond wig from the case she carried and placed it solidly on her head. 
Then, still wearing the smirk, she took a bottle of perfume off the shelf, sprayed it on her neck and wrists, tugged a suit off a hanger, and grabbed a pair of Breeden’s panty hose. 
“In fact, I can prove beyond reasonable doubt that I’m not even in the country.”
Using the hose and some bathroom towels, Munroe padded her body to fit the suit. 
She dressed in front of Breeden, who kept her eyes mostly on the ceiling or shut. 
Breeden’s breathing was calm and regular, and finally, in a near whisper, she said, “How bad could it have really been?”
Each word brought Munroe flashbacks of Francisco’s body in a pool of blood, lifeless on the ground. 
She breathed in the rage and allowed it to consume her, tore off a strip of tape and placed it over Breeden’s mouth, 
then jerked Breeden’s right hand up from the bed and watched her eyes bulge as she struggled for air. 
After a moment Munroe placed the hand back on the bed and ran a finger along the inside of the choke to release the pressure, 
then patted Breeden’s cheek. “For your sake,” she said, “let’s hope that things go well for me tonight.”
She placed the laptop and equipment into Breeden’s attaché case, picked out a purse, dumped Breeden’s keys and wallet inside it, 
and, careful to leave no trace of her presence or identity, walked out of the room. 
She placed a Do Not Disturb sign on Breeden’s door and then in her own room cleared it of any indication that she had been there.
RICHARD BURBANK’S HOME was an apartment that covered nearly the entire floor above his offices. 
Dressed as she was, Munroe didn’t even garner a second look from night security when she entered the building. 
A card on Breeden’s key ring took the elevator to the correct floor, and Munroe exited into a marble foyer that ended in a door opposite the elevator.
The key card let her soundlessly into Burbank’s home, 
and although the unit was dark, city lights filtering through large plate-glass windows provided more than enough illumination to guide her through the maze of furniture and carpeting. 
In the living room, Munroe stuffed a pair of Breeden’s panties between the couch cushions and then followed voices to the far side of the apartment. 
She stood against the half-open office door and listened to one side of a phone conversation— Burbank and one of his many girlfriends, apparently.
She waited until the conversation had ended and then entered the room, weapon trained on the back of Burbank’s head.
If revenge were to be saccharine sweet, she would have killed him with her bare hands, staring into his eyes as he died slowly. 
Unfortunately, a bullet to the head was necessary for consistency.
Her steps were soundless, but the oversize clothes rustled, and without glancing up from his desk Burbank said, “Katie, is that you?”
“No, asshole,” Munroe said. “Kate’s dead, and you’ll be with her shortly.”
Burbank turned, facing into the muzzle of the gun.
Like the rest of the apartment, the office was nearly dark, and Burbank was a silhouette against the city lights, but even in the dimness Munroe could see the terror in his eyes. 
His hands trembled, and his eyes twitched nervously in the direction of the phone.
“Hand it to me,” Munroe said.
Burbank gave her the phone and then, in a sudden shift to calm, put his palms out and said, “Look, you don’t want to kill me. 
“Whatever this is about, we can work through it. I can give you anything you want. I have connections, power— you know that. 
“You want money? I’ll give you money. I can set you up good, no more globe-trotting. Whatever it is you want, I can make it happen.”
“Unless you’re Jesus fucking Christ and can raise the dead, there’s no way you can give me what I want.”
Burbank’s face went blank, and a second later his negotiator personality resurfaced. 
“You were never meant to get hurt. No one was supposed to be hurt. We should talk about this some more, work through it, see if we can’t find those who were really to blame.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Munroe said. “You’re making me sick.” 
She placed a foot on his chair and pushed it away from the desk. “Stay seated and keep your hands and feet where I can see them.” 
She flipped through the automated records on the phone and, not finding what she wanted, said, “We’re calling Nchama. Give me his number.”
Burbank’s mouth dropped open, and he said, “What?”
“You heard me, you fucking bastard. Give. Me. Nchama’s. Number.”
Burbank sat without moving, and Munroe cursed inwardly, torn between the intense desire to inflict pain and the complications of fucking up the otherwise perfect forensics of Kate’s would-be murder-suicide. 
“Last warning,” she said. And when again he didn’t move, she fired a shot into his left thigh.
Burbank screamed, lurched forward, and grabbed at his leg, and Munroe slapped a five-inch strip of tape across his mouth. 
“You want me to do that again?” she asked.
Eyes wide, fingers streaked with red, and grasping his leg, he shook his head vehemently.
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now get me the fucking number.”
Burbank pointed toward the desk, and Munroe kicked the chair back toward it. 
“Keep your hands where I can see them and don’t give me a reason to take out your other leg.”
Burbank nodded and fumbled with the desk drawer.
“Stop,” Munroe said.
He hesitated and then did as she’d instructed, placing his hands on the armrests.
Munroe stepped between Burbank and the desk, pushed him back again, and with the weapon trained on his chest used the other hand to open the drawer. 
She searched through it, then felt along the underside and located a small depression. 
She released it, and a hidden drawer sprang open. Munroe removed the handgun, checked the safety, and then slid it into the waistband at the small of her back. 
Then she nodded again in the direction of the desk. “Nchama’s number,” she said.
Whatever confidence Burbank had held in reserve was fast fading; 
Munroe could see it in his posture, in the way his hands shook, and in the tension in his face. 
He dug through a drawer, pulled out a notepad, and handed it to her. 
She motioned him away from the desk and to the floor, where, still clutching at his leg and moaning against the gag, he sat with his back to the wall.
With a sneer, Munroe came slowly after him, watched his eyes grow wide as she crouched down to his level. 
With the gun to his head and her eyes boring into his, she squeezed the wound on his thigh. Burbank screamed under the gag, 
and then, when he had calmed slightly, Munroe said, “I will hurt you. I will hurt you badly if you are difficult. Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
She lowered the weapon, reached for the tape, and ripped it from his face. He began to yell, and she shook her head. 
Still crouched at eye level, she said, “You’ve read my dossier. You know what I’m capable of, and you know that I specialize in information. 
“This means you also know that I’m not bluffing when I tell you that I know why you left Emily to rot in Africa.” 
Her voice was low, monotonous, deadly. “Don’t try to play innocent, because bullshit is only going to prolong your pain. 
“I know what you’ve done, and I know why you’ve done it. What I want to know is what you told Nchama that caused him to hold Emily in Mongomo.”
Through gritted teeth and halted breath, Burbank said, “That Emily was an impostor.”
“And you ordered Nchama to kill her?”
“Not in those exact words.”
Munroe prodded again at his thigh, and he swore.
“I didn’t have to,” he said. “Nchama said he’d taken care of it.”
“She called you,” Munroe said. “Nearly a year later, she talked with you. You knew she was alive, and you could have brought her home.”
Burbank shrugged. “By that time it didn’t matter anymore. Emily was pregnant, and Nchama never would have let her leave with the child.”
“What you mean is that with her the soon-to-be-mother of his child, he wouldn’t kill her like you wanted him to.”
Burbank said nothing, and she saw the truth in his eyes. 
“So he keeps her, alive but hidden. What is it that you hold over his head?” she asked. “What is he afraid of?”
Burbank gave no response, and Munroe smiled sweetly. “I haven’t time to waste,” she said, singsong and lilting. 
“It doesn’t matter to me if you have all your fingers and toes. Does it matter to you?”
When he still said nothing, she placed the muzzle of the gun over his thumb, 
and when her index finger coiled for the trigger, Burbank said, “Video footage— a huge under-the-table deal that I threatened to take to his president.”
There was no point in demanding he hand it over. Burbank surely kept copies. 
Munroe slapped the tape back across his mouth and said, “Fucking piece of scum.” 
Then she stood, took the handset off his desk, and dialed.
She greeted Nchama in English and said, “I’m the one you’ve been hunting,” and then for privacy she switched to Fang. 
“I took out your patrol and beheaded your commander. I am a phantom,” she said, 
“and if I must, I will hunt you down and destroy you. Is the girl impostor alive?” 
Munroe received an affirmative and so shoved the phone in Burbank’s face and again ripped off the strip of tape. 
“Tell him plans have changed,” Munroe said. “That you need Emily returned to the United States.”
Burbank managed to stammer only slightly as he spoke, and when he had finished, Munroe took the phone back and continued with Nchama in Fang. 
She bluffed through the remainder of the conversation as if she now had the information that Burbank held. 
In promising to control Burbank— to control the blackmail— she offered Nchama a way out. 
She twisted the promise into a threat should he fail to cooperate, 
and by the time the call ended, she was as certain as she could ever be that Emily and the children were free of Burbank’s perfidy.
Munroe had no need for Richard Burbank now. He could die. Then Kate Breeden. That was the plan. 
Put a bullet in his brain. Then leave the photos, bullet casings, and Kate’s undergarments and walk out into the night to take care of Breeden’s suicide. 
For such short notice, the strategy was impressively flawless, 
and she stared at Burbank now, the whining, sniveling excuse for a man who had been the cause of so much pain.
She prepared to fire, but then she stopped. It could have been a minute or two, or ten, that she stood rigid, staring down at him while he whined and shed crocodile tears. 
All the while, memory tapes of Pieter Willem and Francisco Beyard danced inside her head, recollections of one man overcoming the other. 
And she knew that Richard Burbank wasn’t worth it. “Turn on your computer,” she said finally.
Burbank stood again and hobbled to the desk, and then, with the computer powering on, she tossed the extra DVD with Emily’s footage and the packet of photos on the desk. 
She shoved him into the office chair and sat on the edge of the desk, where she could observe his expression while she forced him to watch the entire length of footage.
Burbank’s face betrayed no emotion throughout the viewing, 
and if Munroe understood correctly, the wheels of his mind had kicked into action, calculating the damage and planning spin and information control. 
If he lived, he would attempt to talk his way out of this, just as he’d talked his way into Elizabeth’s life and so many business deals thereafter, and so she waited until the footage ended.
Then, when the room had filled with silence, she said, “I don’t have to kill you, Richard. You’re already dead.”
Burbank looked into her face, surprise written clearly across his.
“You seem to be a little slow in catching on,” she said. “So let me help you.” 
Munroe leaned forward so that her face was only inches from his. “This morning Miles will take a copy of that footage to the board.” 
She paused and allowed the information to sink in. “Do I need to get graphic, Richard? What will they do when the truth is known? 
“How much power will they allow you, Richard? How much control will you retain? How much wealth?” 
She paused again. “You’ve lost it all. Gone. Poof.”
She waited for Burbank’s reaction, read it in the creases around his eyes, smiled Pieter Willem’s sadistic smile, and beat her fist into her chest in mock grief. 
“Poor Daddy Burbank. Lost his wife and lost his daughter. Oh! The pain!
“You buried it well, Richard, your dirty little secret— shell companies and corporations behind corporations, all hiding the truth that your wealth and power were nothing but a fa【马赛克2】ade. 
"You’re broke, Richard. You have nothing but debt. Everything you own, everything you have— including Titan— belonged to Elizabeth and now belongs to Emily. 
“And with Emily missing, everything you retain is at the discretion of the board.”
She smiled again and allowed Burbank to mull this over, then said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your nightmare doesn’t end with the board.”
His face turned quickly toward hers. “How silly of me,” she said. “But that would have been too easy for you and your smooth, glib tongue.
“Emily’s footage and a thorough explanation outlining all this are also being sent to media outlets and law enforcement. 
“The charade of your persona may possibly survive the news-shark feeding frenzy, 
“but without the power and money granted by the board of trustees, I doubt you’ll survive a courtroom.
“Motive is a powerful thing,” she continued, “and I do believe yours has now been thoroughly documented. 
“When you’re arrested— and you will be arrested— your public defender is going to have his work cut out.
“No, Richard,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t have to kill you. Death would be so much easier than what you have waiting.
“This is a revenge I will be able to enjoy every day for years to come.”
She smiled. “Every night I will think of you, a soft white man with gang members, killers, and rapists as bedtime companions. 
“I’ll wake with a smile, knowing it’s another day in the life of Poor Daddy Burbank, the bunkmate’s bitch. 
“Word will leak that you’ve gotten AIDS or hepatitis C, that you’ve grown older than your years, and that you’re wasting away. 
“Every bit of news will make mine a good day. And when you get out, if you ever do, I’ll be waiting.”
She paused again and whispered, “So far the fall, so great the degradation.”
Munroe indicated the photo envelope she’d tossed on the desk. “Keep these as a memento, because once the shit hits the fan, memories are all you’ll have.” 
She stood, slid the silenced pistol into the far corner of the room, said, “Enjoy the rest of your fucking miserable life,” then turned and walked out the door.
MUNROE GOT AS far as the kitchen before the stillness of the apartment was split by the unmistakable hiss of the weapon. 
She returned to the office and stood in the doorway only long enough to ascertain that Burbank had been successful. 
She removed the DVD from the computer and then went quickly down the hall, through Burbank’s bedroom to his bathroom.
She found a washcloth and soaked it, then repeated the procedure with a second, applying a generous amount of hand soap.
She returned to Burbank. Lifting his right hand with the damp cloth, she wiped it thoroughly, hand to wrist to forearm. 
She followed with the second washrag and for consistency did the same on the left. 
The soap and water would wash away enough of the trace powder to conceal the crime scene’s silent truths.
Rags tossed into the attaché case, she moved back through the apartment and took the elevator down. 
Their encounter had veered far from the initial strategy, but her improvisation would suffice.
Her return to the hotel was on foot, cool air to clear her head, to think things through, to decide what the next step would be, 
but it wasn’t until she was back inside Breeden’s room staring at the body of the woman who had betrayed half a decade of friendship that she was certain.
Munroe said nothing to Breeden, merely stripped out of the suit and stepped into her own clothes, then released the gag, the bonds, and the choke from Kate’s neck.
“Are you going to kill me now?” Breeden asked.
Munroe slipped the constraints and suit in with her equipment, turned toward the door, and said, “No.”
“Is Richard dead?” Kate called out.
“Yes.” Munroe said. 
And without looking back she walked into the hall, down the stairs, and into the darkened shadows of the city’s steel-and-glass giants, mentally blinded, emotions coursing along a Geiger counter’s range.
She had no direction, no motive, and no place to go.

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chapter 22
Munroe was fifteen feet ahead and stood facing a large man whose face Bradford couldn’t see. 
Her mouth moved, and although Bradford couldn’t hear the words, her eyes held the same empty glaze that had swept in when Francisco’s body had dropped to the ground. 
Bradford watched her muscles tense and knew that if she went after the big guy, there would be another death, possibly two. 
He shouted her name, and her focus shifted slowly until she stared directly at him. 
Bradford maintained eye contact until the tension of the moment diffused, 
and then he turned toward the man, and when he did, a shock of recognition ran through him. He could see the same written on the other man’s face.
Bradford nodded. “George.”
Wheal said, “Miles.”
And Munroe said, “Fuck.”
And then she spoke again, the lucidity in the stream of words a stark contrast to her behavior of the past hours. 
“We’re taking the ship to Douala,” Munroe said to Wheal. “After that, you can have it back.” 
And then to Bradford, “I’m going to the control deck. Have Wheal get the boat into the hold and then keep him away from me and from the ship controls. 
“If he even twitches in the wrong direction, shoot him.” And then she walked off.
There was five feet of silent space between the two men. Bradford stood with the rifle still pointed toward the deck; neither moved. 
Wheal stared down at him as if unsure whether Bradford would use the gun or how deep the shit pile was, until finally he broke the silence. “Want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
Bradford sighed, his shoulders slumped, and he nodded in the direction of the small boat still hanging over the ocean. “Take a look, and then I’ll explain,” he said.
Before Wheal had a chance to return to the crane controls, the trawler’s engines kicked up and the ship began to move. 
Bradford glanced at the pilothouse and said, “Does she know what she’s doing up there?” 
Wheal nodded, then brought the small boat over the deck and, like lowering a coffin into the grave, let it down into the hold.
Both men stood beside the boat. Wheal stared in silence and then with a heavy sigh turned and reached for a tarp. 
“I had a bad feeling about this,” he said, and he opened the plastic and laid it over Francisco. 
His face twisted through a range of emotions and then hardened, became expressionless. 
He turned toward Bradford. “The explanation better be good, or I’m going to kill her.”
Bradford described the events that had led to Beyard’s death and the bloody aftermath that followed, 
and when he finished, the hold fell silent except for the sound of their breathing. 
Wheal said, “I’ll take care of him, finish his business, do what I know he would have wanted.” He walked toward the stairs. 
“I won’t attempt to stop you from going to Douala— it’s the easiest way to get you both the fuck off my ship. But I still hold her responsible.”
Bradford ran a grimy hand through his hair and said, “George, whatever’s going on in your head right now, don’t engage her. You’re both likely to end up dead.” 
His back turned, Wheal waved him off with a gesture that could have been a middle finger, and as he stepped across the threshold, Bradford moved to the stairs. 
He needed to get to Munroe, get her sorted out, find out what the hell was wrong, and most of all keep Wheal out of sight. 
What a fucking nightmare.
He headed for the pilothouse, and when he entered it, Wheal was already there and Munroe was not. 
“Where is she?” Bradford said.
“Fuck if I know. If we’re lucky, she jumped overboard.”
Bradford left the pilothouse and took the stairs at a near run, paused long enough to confirm that Munroe wasn’t anywhere on deck, and found the door to the interior. 
He opened it to silence, called her name, and received no response. 
He moved down the dark, narrow hallway, opening doors and flipping on room lights, going quickly from one to the next 
until he found the light switch for the hallway, slammed his fist against it, and when the darkness emptied, froze for a half second.
She lay on the floor at the end of the hall, her body partly through the threshold of a door. 
His throat closed, and he moved forward like someone running through deep water. 
He knelt beside her, checked her breathing and pulse; then his eyes rose to take in the room itself, and he whispered, “Oh, shit.” 
The place breathed Francisco Beyard. Parts of his persona marked the room like a pen-scrawled signature, 
and whatever had driven her to enter it had not been strong enough to sustain her. 
As best he could tell, she had vomited before passing out.
He stared at the blood and mud and now the stomach juices that coated her skin and clothing, sighed deeply, stood, 
and went back through the bunkrooms searching for clothing that would fit, anything that didn’t belong to Francisco. 
And then he carried her out of Francisco’s room to the narrow hallway bathroom and with reverent tenderness sponged off the filth.
A BUNKROOM ON the trawler.
Munroe knew it by the familiar movement of a ship on calm water and the woody dankness of the air. 
Her eyelids were weighted, and she fought to open them, succeeded, and then, seeing nothing, closed them again in exhaustion. 
She was laid out flat with her arms to her sides, her head slightly elevated, her mouth dry. 
There were flashes of illumination against the blackness of her mind: 
the macabre sight of her reflection in the pilothouse windows; a walk down the hallway to Francisco’s cabin to take a shower; 
the chessboard, the unmade bed, the fragrance of his presence; nausea and then darkness.
Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Or a day. Or a week. 
She struggled to lift a hand against the wall, to place the other against the side of the bed and create support to sit up, 
but found no strength, let go, and drifted back into the void.
It was light when she opened her eyes next, the source a low-wattage bedside lamp turned against the opposite wall. 
The room was unfamiliar— not Francisco’s, not the holding cell— and her clothes were clean and foreign and without the stench of death. 
She shifted, and her eyes moved to take in the room.
Focus returned in small waves, and with awareness came tension, nausea, and the iron vise inside her chest that fractured each second and made life a waking death. 
In a wall niche was a bottle of water; she sat up and reached for it, emptied it in several long swallows, and then rested her forearms on her knees.
From the hall came the sound of footsteps, and the door opened. 
George Wheal entered carrying a tray of food, and he placed it on the narrow table between the bunks, gave a curt nod, and sat opposite so that their knees were nearly touching. 
“We’re in Douala,” he said. “I guess you’ll want to get moving soon.”
Munroe drew away until her back was against the wall, pulled her knees to her chest, and stared silently at the tray.
“Look,” he said, “for what it’s worth, the period you were here was the happiest I’d seen Francisco. 
“If I know anything, I know he died content, at peace.” Wheal paused as if calculating the weight of his words and then stood. 
“That doesn’t change anything between you and me, but I owe it to Francisco to make sure that you know. He loved you, and it’s what he would have wanted.” 
Wheal opened the door, then looked back for a silent moment before he stepped out and shut it behind him.
The room went silent and then claustrophobic, and in an effort to hold on to sanity Munroe reached for the boots at the foot of the bunk, put them on, and laced them up. 
She struggled to stand; her vision folded inward to a pinprick of light, and she braced herself through the first wave of dizziness. 
Then she turned, leaned into the wall, and somehow one step at a time made it out the cabin door. 
She’d gone only a couple of feet when Bradford was beside her, arm around her shoulders holding her up, walking her forward.
Munroe moved in a daze, aware but not, body present and mind somewhere else, shut down. 
Sounds, sights, and smells filtered into her brain as if through gauzy film while Bradford ushered her through the motions and took care of logistics. 
They entered Douala at the southern edge of the port where Francisco’s driver waited to take them into the city 
and, at Bradford’s instruction, bypassed Francisco’s flat for Akwa Palace, the crown jewel of the city’s hotels, a place where one could almost forget what part of the world this was.
At the hotel-room door, awareness kicked in, and Munroe realized that Bradford intended for them to share the room. 
She stopped in the foyer, propped against the wall for support while Bradford entered and dropped his things on one of the chairs. 
He looked back to where she continued to stand. “I’m staying here with you whether you like it or not,” he said.
Munroe nodded and moved toward the closest bed and, with her legs still on the floor, tilted over onto the pillows. 
With her back to Bradford, she whispered, “We need to get tickets out of here, need to get to Houston.”
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
She wrapped an arm around a pillow and pulled it to her chest. “You’re worried about leaving me?”
He walked to the edge of the bed and sat behind her, angled so that he could see the side of her face. “Very.”
A long silence filled the space until Munroe said, “I play it over and over, and no matter what direction I take, there’s nothing I could have done to save him.”
“I know,” he said, and he brushed a finger along her forehead.
“It doesn’t make it any easier,” she whispered. “Somehow it should, but it doesn’t.” 
She grasped the pillow tighter and pulled her knees to her chest, while tears spilled down her cheeks.
Bradford shifted to lie behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and drew her close.
The tears flowed faster, and Munroe shook with silent sobs until the shadows in the room deepened and the hush of evening settled, and there was nothing left to cry. 
And when the water of emotion had dried and all that remained was a hollow emptiness, she said, 
“You know, you’re the first to live through what my demons are capable of doing.”
His arms were still around her, and he whispered, “It wasn’t without cause.”
“That’s not the point,” she said.
“It’s not the first time?”
“No.”
“The scars?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly and said, “The missing years. You’ve wanted to know, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You deserve to know,” she said, and tilted her head to give him a pained, exhausted smile. 
“It starts with Francisco. I met him for the first time when I was fourteen.”
It was completely dark by the time she’d finished a confession that encompassed nine years of buried secrets, embracing details even Logan didn’t know. 
They lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling, engulfed in silence for a long while, 
and then Bradford turned his head toward her. “It’s surprising you’re still sane,” he said.
“Sane?” She sighed. “There are days, months, sometimes even years that go by when I’m sure I’ve attained some state of normalcy, 
“when I can look at myself in the mirror and really believe that somehow I’m like ‘them’— 
“those people out there who’ve lived normal lives and have no fucking clue what the dark side of humanity can do to a person’s mind. 
“And then there are days like today and yesterday, when it’s obvious that the demons are still there, waiting in the background, taunting me.”
She turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said. “For saving my life in Mbini, for getting me out, getting me here.”
And then, without waiting for a response, she let go and tumbled backward into the void, a mental freefall into the darkness of the abyss.
BRIGHT SUNSHINE STREAMING through day curtains was what woke her. 
Bradford was gone, the room was empty, and she was numb. 
Not the dead of internal shutdown or the muted silence of mental noise held at bay by adrenaline and distraction. 
There were no words or phrases or voices, no tension or anxiety, only acceptance, tranquillity; strange and unfamiliar.
She lay on the bed, arms behind her head, and breathed in each passing moment of peace, oblivious to time until Bradford walked in the door. 
He had entered quietly and, seeing her awake, moved directly to her. He sat on the bed. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, and stretched, smiling. “Surprisingly good. How long was I under?”
“About seventeen hours. Didn’t want to leave you, but we couldn’t wait another day to get tickets.” 
He dropped the documents on the bed. “Flight’s tonight at nine.”
“I need to contact Logan.”
He nodded. “Business center will be open for a few more hours. First you need to eat.”
It was strange, this process of conversing, interacting, eating, going through the motions of daily life without anxiety, without mental noise embossing itself onto synaptic activity and guiding reflex. 
It was calm, collected silence, and it remained that way through attempt after attempt to reach Logan, 
until after nearly two hours of intermittent dialing Munroe gave up and called Kate Breeden.
The conversation was brief, Munroe unwilling to discuss the assignment or the events of the past few days 
and Kate unaware of Logan’s whereabouts, having also been unable to contact him. 
Munroe wanted the bike in Houston— for that she needed Logan— and the best she could do was provide Kate the flight-arrival information and hope the message eventually got to him.
While most people trying to locate Logan might have trouble reaching him by phone, the number Munroe used was known to few, was always carried and nearly certainly answered. 
There had been occasions in the past when Logan had dropped off the radar— each had been its own relative nightmare— 
and so Munroe heaved an internal sigh, reached for the tickets, realized Bradford had walked off with them, and then promised Kate she’d send the information by e-mail.
And there, waiting in the mailbox, unbelievable as it was, sat the final puzzle piece that transformed the present and gave context and meaning to everything that had taken place from the day Munroe accepted the assignment. 
She blinked now at the page, information tumbling in her mind like cotton cloth in a dryer: flashbacks, conversations, awareness, and understanding. 
She scrolled and reread:
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: I think you need to see this
Michael,
I have no way of getting in contact with you other than e-mail. 
The photos speak for themselves, although I’m not entirely sure what they mean. 
It’s possible you’re well aware of this already; I was not.
The reason for the attached: In spite of your instructions, Kate refused to release funding until I provided a complete inventory list. 
Her demands for this information went beyond odd behavior to intimidation and then threats of legal action, which I know had nothing to do with you although she used your name. 
For these and other reasons not worth getting into now, I placed Kate under surveillance. If you need to reach me, I have a new number… see signature line below.
Munroe scrolled through photo after photo of Kate Breeden and Richard Burbank, 
each a snapshot in time that left no doubt their relationship went far beyond the tradition of lawyer-client privilege. 
There was a fragmented moment when Munroe’s internal stillness became overwhelmed by rage and the piercing stab of betrayal, and it seemed that the newfound calm would dissipate into the ether. 
But there were no voices. There was no anxiety, no internal percussion, simply controlled anger and the knowledge that there was work to be done.
She dialed, and the relief she felt at hearing Logan’s voice was obviously reciprocated on the other end of the line.
“You got my e-mail?” he asked.
“I did, and I need your help,” she said. “I’m putting events into play, and I won’t be back stateside for a bit. 
“There’s the possibility that when I don’t show up in Houston as Kate expects, she’s going to run. 
“I need to know where she is at all times. Can you handle that?”
“I’ve already got it covered.”
“What about Richard Burbank?”
“Him, too.”
“Instinct paid off, Logan. I owe you big time.”
“Michael, what the hell is going on?”
Munroe sighed. “She set me up.”
There was silence on the other end, followed by a stream of expletives, 
and when they ended, Munroe said, “Burbank used me as a cat’s-paw, and Kate fed him the information to make it possible. 
“Don’t go anywhere. I’ve got a few things I need to take care of first, but I’ll be seeing you in about a week.”
“What’s the plan? What are you going to do about Kate?”
“Trust me,” she said, “you really don’t want to know.”
When Munroe exited the hotel, Bradford stood waiting with the taxi. 
They rode to the airport in silence, and after they had checked in and were standing in the terminal waiting for the flight to board, Bradford said, “Something’s going on, and I’d like to know what it is.”
Munroe rested her head against the wall, stared up at the ceiling, and let out a slow breath. 
“It goes against every instinct I have to talk about this with you,” she said, 
and then she paused and turned toward him. “I’m not going to give you a lot, but you deserve at least something. 
“I’ll tell you what I can, and that’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
“I know now where the information leak is,” she said. “It cuts deep and personal, and I need to deal with it on my own terms, in my own way.” 
She paused. Sighed. “We have two days to get to Houston and put the information in front of the board.” 
She turned to look at him. “It’s on you, Miles. I won’t be returning with you, won’t be stateside until I sort through this— Paris will be good-bye.”
Bradford struck the heel of his boot on the cement floor, repetitive dull taps that filled the silence, then slid down the wall into a squat, staring at nothing. 
“I’m not stupid enough to attempt to stand in your way,” he said. “Even though it’s what I feel I should do.” 
He looked up. “I’ve just lived through two days of hell with you, Michael. To say that I’m concerned is the understatement of the year. You’re not planning to go chuteless off Angel Falls, are you?”
Munroe shook her head and then smiled weakly. “I’m all right, Miles. Really, I am. I’ll be back in Dallas in a few weeks— I promise I’ll look you up. I owe you that.”
She held eye contact long enough to remain credible and then slid down the wall to the floor and sat beside him.
She had lied through omission, had conveniently left out the part where she planned to follow him to Houston and commit murder in cold blood.

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chapter 21
Coastal region, Río Muni, Equatorial Guinea
It was midafternoon, and the sun hung low in the sky, adding threads of pink to the yellow-tinged horizon. 
The area was razed into a wide sweeping circle of orange-red dirt that had been pushed into wandering mounds by machinery and tree trunks. 
The ground was gutted by wide tire tracks, fat stumps were the last testament to arbor giants now fallen, and a border of lush green marked the periphery of the site. 
Munroe kicked at a clod of dried clay, stared out over the expanse of barren ground, 
then leaned against the vehicle door and watched Beyard in the near distance, where he stood by a loaded flatbed truck, conversing animatedly with the driver.
They had pushed since dawn to get this far, utilizing overgrown and unmarked tracks to speed the journey 
and in the process of getting the vehicle through had added another layer of mud and bruises to those acquired the day before.
The conversation over, Beyard turned back, and when he drew close, Munroe said, “They’re making a hell of a mess out of this place.”
He followed her eyes. “I’ve been around it for so long I’ve become immune.” They stood in silence and stared at the wasted landscape, 
and then he said, “It’s going to get worse. Pretty much all of the country’s commercially productive forest is under concession— 
“if things keep going as they are, in five, six years it’ll be completely exhausted. Oil reserves won’t last either. What to do?” 
He shrugged. “Fucking spoilers.” He climbed behind the wheel, and Munroe got into the front seat. 
“We’re headed a half kilometer that way,” he said, pointing, “We should definitely get there before dark.”
They followed a rut-filled dirt road out of the site toward the west, and at an unmarked junction notable only as a break in the thick foliage Beyard turned north.
Munroe glanced at the backseat, where Bradford lay seemingly asleep with his arm draped over his head, and she shifted back to Beyard. 
“I suppose you haven’t made out too badly through all this, spoilers and all.”
He threw her a look and then returned his focus to the road. “I do what I do.”
“So why the drugs, the munitions, the risks involved, when you do so well through legitimate business?”
“Because I’m good at it,” he said. “And I get an adrenaline rush.” He smiled. 
“And don’t make the mistake of thinking this is legitimate. Legal, yes, but let’s not kid ourselves that it’s anything other than raping the country to feed the presidential coffers.”
“Do you care?”【】“I’m a realist, Vanessa. I don’t care, but I don’t lie to myself either.”
THE SECOND CUT site differed little from the first, with the exception of a few attempts at constructed shelter and a makeshift tin shack that sat on the edge of chaos. 
Next to the tin was a six-wheeler with canvas raised over the back, and Beyard stopped beside it, got out of the vehicle, and banged his hand on the body of the truck.
The rear canvas parted, and a short, stocky man stood in the flap of the doorway. 
His face lit up into a smile, and he held out a hand, which Beyard took and used to clamber into the truck. 
Munroe waited in the silence, Bradford still stretched out on the backseat, 
and a few minutes later Beyard returned and said, “Go on in. Manuel has everything you need.”
The interior of the truck was dark and dank and permeated with the smell of mildew and wood rot. 
Along each side was an unmade cot, and the floor was littered with used dishes and discarded remnants of food. 
At the front a small wooden table bolted to the floor held a smattering of electronics. 
Manuel turned to Munroe and said in Fang, “The boss tells me you speak my language.”
Munroe nodded, and Manuel reached for a collapsible satellite dish. 
“I have to put this up top,” he said, and then pointed to the phone. “The boss said you use whatever you want.”
Munroe waited for the sounds overhead to still and the truck’s engine to roll over, 
and when the phone powered on, she reached for it, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. The next five minutes would change everything. 
She drew another long drink of air and followed it with a slow expulsion, working backward into the frame of mind, conjuring horror and fear and becoming the part. And then she dialed.
When she stepped from the truck into the dimming light of the evening, most of their supplies were on the ground 
and Beyard was on his back inside the vehicle with disassembled parts around him and twisting a bolt underneath the rear seat. 
“How did it go?” he asked. His voice was muted by the pieces between them, and Munroe stepped closer.
“Only time will tell.”【】“So now what?”【】“Now we wait.” She paused and looked around. “Where’s Miles?”
Beyard threw a piece out on the ground, then knelt and peeled away the vehicle’s ersatz floorboard. “He took a walk.”
Munroe stepped into Beyard’s line of sight. “What exactly does that mean?”
“You tell me. He had a filled duffel bag and said he’d be back in the morning. 
“I offered him the two-way in case we had to pull out before then. He declined, said it would be better for all parties concerned if he didn’t take it.”
“Did you do an inventory count?”【】Beyard nodded. “Two of the assault rifles, five hundred rounds, a few heavy pieces. And he took the sniper.”
“Shit, Francisco, the Vintorez was mine.” She paused, scratching the back of her head, and looked toward the trees in the near distance. 
And then she turned in a complete circle, taking in the periphery, and shook her head; a slow smile crept across her face. 
Bradford was on watch and determined to prove trustworthiness; he’d prepared to take out a military convoy if one showed up. 
“He’s within four hundred meters,” she said, and then, turning her back to the forest, nodded at the truck. 
“Is this home for the night?”【】“Yes. We’ll load now and head off first thing in the morning. Manuel will drive so we can stay out of sight.” 
He stepped toward the vehicle in which they’d arrived, kicked a tire. 
“I’m going to dump this thing in the forest away from the site,” he said. “I don’t want any of this coming back on any of my people. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Shouldn’t I come?”【】“If you’re up for the long walk back,” he said. 
Then he smiled and hooked his finger into Munroe’s collar and pulled her close. “Even layered in two days’ worth of grime as you are, I find you irresistible.” 
He paused and raised his eyes from her mouth to the forest behind her. “If I kiss you, do you think he’ll take a potshot?”
She leaned into him and brushed her lips against his. “I’m sure he’ll be tempted,” she said. 
Then she grinned, stepped back, and opened the vehicle door. 
She slid into the front seat. Beyard followed and cranked the engine.
AT FIVE IN the morning, Munroe was jolted out of a sleep she hadn’t intended to fall into. 
The combined total of six hours of rest over three nights was taking a toll. 
The interior of the truck was sightlessly black, but from Beyard’s breathing she knew he was awake. 
She lay on the cot with headphones on her ears, and in an attempt to clear the fuzz that filled her head, she swung her legs to the floor and rested her elbows on her knees. 
“Channels have opened up again,” she whispered. “Seems they’ve taken the bait. 
“They’re sending most of their men back to wherever it was they came from and holding a large contingent around Mongomo.”
“We should probably get moving,” he said. “Try to get to the coast while our luck holds out.”
“What about Miles?”【】“He knows we’re leaving. I wouldn’t suggest waiting past dawn.”
Munroe sighed and lay back down. If Bradford didn’t arrive by first light, she would head out to look for him. 
The option of leaving him behind had ended when the puzzle snapped into focus and she’d begun to formulate a plan for retribution. 
She remained on the cot, dozing, until the sky changed from deepest black to navy blue and she knew the shift had come, 
not from stepping outside but from an internal clock that through long experience had been synchronized to nature.
Across the aisle, Beyard took a deep breath and sat up. “Are you awake?”【】“Unfortunately.”【】“We need to get going.”
Manuel slept in the open outside the truck, on a rolled-out mat, 
and while Beyard woke him and the two made preparations to depart, Munroe stared toward the forest and the brightening sky. 
“Give me half an hour,” she said. “I want to see if I can find Miles. I really don’t want to leave without him.”
From the top of the truck, Bradford’s voice said, “There’s no need.”
Munroe opened the cab door, used the floorboard to step up and look over, and, seeing Bradford, said, “Shit, Miles, how long have you been up there?”
He smiled and said nothing, sat up and then ambled down with an AKM in one hand and the duffel bag dragging behind him.
Before the sun crested the horizon, they moved out of the site along the only road that led to Mbini. 
Manuel was supplied with ample money for bribes, and if all else failed, they would fight their way through. 
Inside the canvas, Munroe sat on a cot with the headphones to her ears, Beyard lay on the other, and Bradford sat on the floor with an assault rifle across his lap. 
The heat and lack of air was stifling, and distance was measured by time, bumps, jolts, and continual gear shifting.
They had been moving for just under two hours when Munroe straightened and placed her fingertips to the headphones. 
“How far to the coast?” she asked.【】“Forty-five minutes if we’re lucky,” Beyard said.
She stood and reached for a Kevlar vest. “It’s going to be close. They’ve been tipped off, and there’s a convoy moving down the coast out of Bata toward Mbini.” 
She snapped magazines into pockets and tossed the remaining vest to Beyard. 
“Sorry, Miles, we only brought two— got them before we knew you were coming with us.”
He nodded and patted the weapon on his lap. “Been through worse.”
The truck began to slow, and Munroe stood on the front table and with Beyard’s knife cut a hole in the canvas just above the metal frame. 
There was a checkpoint ahead, the soldiers a ragtag group of four. 
She signaled this to Beyard, and when the truck shuddered to a full stop, she positioned the weapon using the frame as a bipod and kept the unit leader in sight as he approached.
The conversation between the commander and Manuel began as light banter and shifted quickly in tone as the military man began to check the truck and Manuel offered pecuniary incentive to avoid it. 
Two of the commander’s men walked toward the back, and Munroe gestured this to the others. Beyard and Bradford shifted position along the rear. 
The voices at the front were raised, news out of Mongomo no doubt playing into the equation.
Munroe curled her index finger and rested it on the trigger; taking out the road patrol wasn’t ideal, but if that’s what was required to get to the coast, so be it. 
Manuel passed a wad of cash out the window, and she paused. 
The commander stared at it, hesitated, and took it. He called to his men, and moments later the truck started up.
Munroe remained on the table and watched the road and the stretches of landscape where the rain forest had long since been exploited and the terrain partially reclaimed by secondary forest.
She sniffed the air, could smell the salt, and knew they were getting close. 
They turned off the road before entering the city proper, looped south toward the beach along a well-used track, 
and stopped in a hard-packed clearing two hundred yards from the shore, where a small collection of houses stood abutting the ocean. 
Rust-red rooftops were visible above the foliage, and from beyond the houses came the rumble of the water. 
If the boat was ready, as it should be, five minutes was all that it would take to be gone from this place.
The truck stopped. Munroe threw the strap of a duffel bag over her shoulder and climbed into the sunlight. 
Beyard circled to the front of the truck. He spent a moment in hushed conversation with Manuel, and Munroe caught snippets of hurried instructions. 
Beyard handed the driver a thick pouch, and with a nod of assent Manuel slipped out of sight into the verdure.
With the driver gone, Beyard returned and placed the transponder and a key in Munroe’s palm. 
“I need five minutes to swap out the plates,” he said. He pointed to a footpath from the parking area to a house on the perimeter. 
“The extra fuel is inside. You’ll know the boat as soon as you see it. Can you ready her?”
“Leave it,” she said, and stood in his way, “It’s not worth it.”
“Essa, my life may be mine to gamble, but I won’t risk the lives of my people. I need to buy them time, and we need the boat readied— I can’t do both.” 
He scooted behind her and planted a kiss on the nape of her neck. “Go.”
She stood for a second’s deliberation and then slapped the side of the truck. “Let’s go,” she said to Bradford.
He pulled what he could carry from the truck, and together they followed the path that Beyard had pointed out.
On the shore were several boats, one of them a paint-worn skiff differentiated from the others by the powerful outboard. 
Munroe dumped the bag into the boat and looked back toward the trail.
From the shore she could see the top of the truck’s canvas and down the road the top of an antenna moving toward the truck. 
She stood on the boat’s prow to get an extra three feet of height and caught a streak of black moving with the antenna.
Time slowed, her heart raced. She reached for the nearest weapon and, as her fist closed around it, took off running for the truck. 
Each forward stride up the sand was an excruciating time-lapse drop into eternity.
Around a bend the clearing came into view. The internal war drum pounded, and the world faded to gray. 
Beyond the truck were three black vehicles and, standing beside the truck, blocking Francisco, were nine men, heavily armed. 
Francisco stood with his fingers laced behind his head, and to the right of him was the same commander who had nearly shot Munroe that night on the boat. 
His sidearm was pointed at Francisco’s head. Francisco turned toward Munroe. Their eyes locked. He smiled. 
And in the half second it took her to raise the rifle to her shoulder and take aim, the commander fired.
Pressure tore through Munroe’s head, claws ripping her skull open from the inside out. The air was empty of all oxygen. 
She couldn’t breathe, and through eyes not her own she watched in slow motion as Francisco dropped to his knees and fell face-first into the dust.【】And then the world went black.
Every muscle, every fiber shrieked the command to get to him. 
She lunged. Strong arms held her back. A hand was over her mouth. 
Someone was screaming, the agony of a person burned alive, surreal and horrible, the howls, all of them coming from inside her head. 
And then there was silence followed by words, calm words, reassuring, coming from her mouth. 
And a hand, her hand, pulling herself from Bradford’s grasp and the other hand reaching for the silenced rifle and slamming the butt of it across Bradford’s face, knocking him to the ground.
On the other side of the truck, a soldier reached for Francisco’s body. 
Through the scope, Munroe set the mark for the man’s forehead, let off a shot, and was gone from where she’d lain before the body crumpled on top of Francisco.
Touch him and die.
There was confusion now. Orders. Commands. 
The others dropped and found cover, searched out the direction of the shot. 
In the lapsed seconds of chaos, Munroe moved into the bush, silent, invisible, fast, the hunted now the hunter. 
Two more of the enemy moved toward Francisco’s body. She fired two rounds that pierced body armor, then for good measure two more, each accurately aimed.
Touch him and die.
They knew this now, and their confusion segued to structure. 
She searched the faces and uniforms for the commander; she would find him and take his life from him the way he had taken Francisco’s; nothing else mattered.
There was movement on the periphery. Shadows crept in the direction of where she’d left Bradford. The trail. The boat. 
Munroe paused. Concentration shifted from the commander to the path and back again until the decision to keep the way clear was forced. 
Each round let off a spit, found its mark, silenced, but in the stillness audible. 
Gunfire returned in her direction; the bullets kicked dirt inches from where she lay. 
She moved again, circled around, stopped on the edge of the clearing behind the truck, and began again to search out the commander. 
There, only yards away, Francisco’s lifeless body watched with unseeing eyes, beckoned, and the world went silent.
Munroe crept toward him, oblivious to everything but the smile on his face and the power of his call. 
There was a staccato of gunfire from the direction of the shore and a rain of bullets over her head that took down two men behind her. 
She paused only to look back and then, feral and catlike, crouched again along the ground toward Francisco. 
She reached for him, could almost touch him, and then in the bush, there across the clearing in the line of sight beyond her hand, was a ghost of movement. 
She paused. Among those shadows was the commander, and he must die.
She drew away from Francisco and with patient relish cut off the commander’s escape by taking out the tires on each black vehicle. 
And then, out of ammunition, she pulled the knife from Francisco’s belt, left the rifle beside his body, and returned to the edge of the clearing to wait.
In the silence, adrenaline flowed, and with the focus of each passing minute, bloodlust heightened. 
Within the foliage across the clearing, shadows played against shadows until recognition formed: four of the enemy. 
One mattered, and she would have him.
She moved again, tracked them through the bush, closed her eyes and listened to the whispers of the landscape. 
Understood and smiled. They were circling, hunting for her. 
She would play the game of cat and mouse, eliminate the three, and take him down alone.
To hide, to hunt along the damp and dim of the rain-forest floor, was familiar, natural. 
The musk of living things permeated the air; it mixed with the inner cauldron of rage and fed the urge to strike, to kill. 
The knife was warm, an extended part of her body, and she stalked with patience, creating diversion to draw gunfire and deplete ammunition until their weapons were useless. 
And then, an apparition, she moved from the shadows long enough to kill before disappearing again.
Until there was only him. He was there, waiting; she could feel his eyes and the figment of his breath along her spine. 
She was loud, careless, tempting as she moved through the bush, and then it came, the lunge from behind. 
She twisted to avoid the impact of his knife and in one drawn-out movement brought Francisco’s blade across his neck. 
She forced the commander to the ground and, with fingers clenched in his hair, held his head, pulled the knife from his hand, and plunged his own blade into his throat. 
She jerked it around through tendon and veins, and when the crunch of his severed spinal column vibrated in her hand, the rush of euphoria flowed. 
She continued until his head separated from his body, held it high in gratified triumph, rose to her feet, and, trailing blood and fluid, carried it out of the forest.
For a quiet moment, Munroe stood over Francisco, droplets staining the ground at her feet, 
and then she struck out at the bodies that lay on him and near him, kicking in blind fury until he was free of the defilement of their touch. 
She knelt over him, dripping a mixture of sweat and blood onto his body, 
and in a picture of sacrificial offering placed the commander’s head in front of open eyes that stared lifelessly into nothing. 
She reached for him, fingers shaking until they touched his forehead, pulled him close, cradled his shoulders, and closed his eyes. 
Then lifted her head to the sky and screamed.
It was primal, pain and rage, fury and pain again. 
Her body shook while tears that had not been shed for nearly a decade racked their way to the surface, and she buried her head in Francisco’s chest.
LIGHT CAME SLOWLY into the fog that was in her mind, awareness brought first by the sound of Bradford’s boots and then by his hand on her shoulder as he knelt beside her. 
Munroe raised her face to look at him, saw the carnage that surrounded them and the commander’s head on the ground, and realized then for the first time what it was that she had done.
“We need to go,” Bradford said.
Munroe cradled Francisco and said, “I’m not leaving him.”
“Together we can carry him.”
BRADFORD STARED OVER the ocean, hand to rudder, and glanced at the coordinates on the transponder. 
It had been three hours since they’d left the coast. They were running low on fuel, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing but ocean for miles to come.
He glanced at Munroe. She was seated between the benches, cross-legged, with Francisco in her arms and nothing but blankness on her face, the same as it had been since they’d shoved off from shore. 
She looked up for a half second, met his gaze, then returned to Francisco, 
and Bradford returned to the water, pushing back the crushing ache that came every time he stole a glance in her direction.
Nothing he’d read, none of the interviews he’d sat through in researching Munroe’s past, could have prepared him for what she’d done. 
He understood now the fear others had described. 
She had been brutally efficient, accurate, had wasted no movement, misspent no energy, and she was fast, terrifyingly fast.
Bradford checked the coordinates again and then the horizon and saw it there, very faint, a black blemish against the blue, and he understood what it meant. 
He looked again at Munroe and then at Francisco and what little remained of his skull and the brain that had driven the genius of the man. 
What a waste. What a goddamn fucking waste.
The vastness of the ocean was dizzying, and over time the ship loomed large on the horizon, until finally they reached its bulk and Bradford brought the boat alongside. 
From the deck a crane swung over the water. Cables and sling lowered. 
Munroe sat motionless and gave no indication that she was aware of being shipside. 
Bradford knelt beside her and touched her hand; she looked up with such hollowness that it took his breath away. 
And then the fog in her eyes cleared and she turned toward the trawler, then back to him and pointed and said, “Hooks go there.”
She bent over Francisco and kissed his forehead. 
“When my enemies and foes came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though wars should rise against me, in this will I be confident…” 
Her voice trailed from a mumble to silence, then she stood and went up the ladder on the side of the ship.
Bradford fought back the lump forming in his throat, moved quickly to secure the sling, grabbed an AKM, and followed her, 
his foot touching the first rung of the ladder seconds after she went over the top. 
There was a whir of motor as the deck crane began to hoist, and when the small boat was about eight feet out of the water, it stopped. 
He moved faster, his feet finding a rhythm against the steel until he reached the deck and was hit by panic.

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chapter 20
Munroe strode to the front of the house. 
The foyer was quiet, and though she had no doubt that the household snitch was hovering nearby, she opened the door and Beyard slipped inside. 
His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a T-shirt thick enough to nearly hide the outline of the pouch that hung against his chest. 
His face was hard, pure business. He handed her two vacuum-packed sets of civilian clothes.
“State radio just announced putting down an attempted coup,” he said. 
“Local military is looking for people in the Mongomo area wearing Israeli camouflage, 
and they’ve given descriptions that could easily be you and Miles or me. The paranoia around town has already started.” 
He paused for a second, and when she said nothing, he stated the obvious. “There’s no coup, Vanessa. They’re looking for us. 
“It won’t take long for the men at the police station to connect the dots. We need to get out of here.”
The drumbeat of war tapped out inside Munroe’s chest. This couldn’t have been the household informer— it was too fast, came too certain. 
Only three people knew of the plan to enter the country using Israeli military camo: Logan was in the United States, and the other two were in this house. 
She took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the reason she always fucking worked alone. 
No tagalongs, no partners, no unnecessary components to screw things up.
“Get the satphone, the passports, and five thousand euros,” Munroe said. “We leave those here with her. I’ll get Miles.”
Munroe tilted her head upward and took in a drink of air, fought back the rage, and then walked calmly to the living room. 
She’d been so close, so fucking close. She entered the room, and Bradford looked up. 
Emily, who’d been talking about her childhood, stopped. Munroe said only, “Emily, I need to talk to Miles.”
Out of the living room and where Emily could not overhear, Munroe whispered in Bradford’s ear, explaining the situation in as few words as possible.
His face twisted through a series of emotions, ending at what Munroe read as horrified shock. 
His hands had tightened into fists, and through clenched teeth he said, “I’m not leaving her.”
“If we take them, it will slow us down and risk getting us all killed— it’s better that she stays.”
“I can’t leave her,” he said again.
“She’s been kept alive and secure here all these years,” Munroe said. “She’s safer here than with us.”
Bradford remained still and said nothing.
“Have it your way.” Munroe knelt to unlace her boots. 
“Figure out how to get her out on your own. Francisco and I are leaving while we’ve still got a chance.” 
She stripped off the uniform and removed a shirt from the pack Beyard had given her and pulled it over her head. “You do what you need to do.”
Bradford ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ceiling. He breathed as if he might hyperventilate, 
and Munroe knew he was running scenarios. He’d come, there was no doubt. 
Bradford knew as well as she did that even if the vehicles separated and he took Emily and the kids in the opposite direction while she and Beyard ran decoy, 
with the border crossings closed as they inevitably would be— if they weren’t already— he wouldn’t be able to get them out of the country on his own. 
Munroe handed him the second pack of clothes, and he took it. 
“Francisco’s coming back with the passports, the money, and the satellite phone,” she said. “We’re not abandoning her, Miles.”
Emily was still on the couch when they returned. Her hands were in her lap, and she clenched them, staring at the coffee cups on the table. 
When they walked into the room, her head jerked up. “We’re not going, are we?” she said. “After all that, we’re not going.”
Bradford sat beside her and shook his head. “Em, plans have changed.”
Munroe said, “The people who’ve tried to kill me are on their way here. We need to go, and if you come with us, there’s a chance you and the children won’t make it. 
“We’re going to leave you with money, passports, and a phone. If we make it out, we’ll be back.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” Emily said. “Please let us come with you.”
“We can’t do it, Emily.”
“One way or the other,” Bradford said, “we’ll get you out of here. It might take a month, could even take a year, but I’m coming back for you, I promise.”
Beyard entered the room with a small case and handed it to Munroe, who in turn handed it to Emily, who was now crying.
“I’m sorry,” Munroe said, and then, to Bradford, “We’re leaving in two minutes. Show her how to use the phone.” 
She and Beyard walked out of the room, and Bradford joined them a minute later.
Beyard had already combined the matériel from both vehicles into one, and Munroe left the keys to the second under its front seat. 
They pulled away from the house, and Beyard drove slowly, eyes ahead to the activity that went on beyond the length of the street. 
The military was now out in force, detaining pedestrians unlucky enough not to have reached the safety of indoors. 
What few vehicles remained on the roads were being pulled over, the occupants forced out with their hands above their heads. 
The atmosphere crackled with paranoia and brewing violence.
Munroe was in the backseat, leaning to the side so that the headphone clamped to her ear was not visible from the windows. 
She watched Beyard’s face in the rearview, his lips drawn tight and stress written in his eyes. 
There were only three routes out of the city, all of them cordoned off, and if it came to fighting their way through, they were severely outgunned.
Vehicle documents in the president’s name and an impressive performance by Beyard got them through the first cluster of assault-weapon-carrying soldiers. 
They were several minutes from the straight four-mile stretch that ran to the border,
and if their luck held, they could get that far before the level of hostility ratcheted up a notch and the papers no longer worked. 
Munroe pressed through the frequencies; where there should have been commotion and activity, there was only static and silence, and then finally she caught voices.
She bent her head toward the floor and struggled to pick up the sounds of a conversation in Fang that ended as abruptly as it had begun. 
“The land borders have been cut off,” she said to Beyard. “They don’t say anything about the coast.”
“We’re not going to get through this way,” he said, and Munroe felt the vehicle lurch and then surge. 
She braced her feet against the back of Bradford’s seat while she held her hands cupped over her ears. Again the vehicle jolted. 
Beyard had looped to the end of a street that ran parallel to Emily’s street and was taking a footpath out of the city. 
Foliage slapped against the windshield, and the suspension groaned. From the path they lurched into a streambed.
“Anything?” Beyard asked.
“Nothing,” Munroe said, her fingers working the scanner controls while she continued to brace for stability.
“They know we’re listening.”
“How the hell…?” Munroe’s voice trailed off. 
Someone knew they were in Mongomo, knew about the camo, knew about the scanners— what the hell else? 
She dropped the headphones, switched off the machine, and glowered at the front seat. Shit.
The water’s course flowed southwesterly, and they followed it, churning up the shallow bed for several miles until the creek routed north, 
and there they broke trail into the bush and headed in the direction of the interior. 
As far as could be determined, they had not been followed out of the city, 
so the atmosphere of violence had been traded for the deceptive stillness of the deep forest. 
They would travel southwest until they converged with the tracks that led to Evinayong, 
and in the heart of the country they would disappear long enough for the frenzy to die and the pursuers to assume they were no longer around. 
They had supplies to last several days, and utilizing the resources of the forest could stretch them to two weeks.
The goal was Mbini, a low-water port eighty kilometers south of Bata, 
nestled at the southern mouth of the nearly mile-wide Benito River 
and surrounded by pristine white beaches and rolling surf that elsewhere in the world would have given birth to a chain of five-star resorts. 
It was from Mbini that open longboats ferried passengers to and from Gabon 
and where a prearranged boat fueled and waiting would not appear out of place.
By nightfall they had put a hard thirty kilometers between themselves and the edge of civilization.
They were camped under a tarp fringed by mosquito netting and strung from the roof of the vehicle. 
Munroe sat against the rear wheel with her arms wrapped around her knees, face coated with dirt, body aching, and right forearm bloody where it had been deeply scratched. 
Beyard had wandered into the dark, and Bradford sat against the front bumper with his legs stretched out, arms crossed, and head tilted toward the sky. 
Munroe was silent; she had nothing to say that wouldn’t resemble spit venom. 
Events had spiraled out of control, and the information that had led to this had come from the inside. 
Logic said it had to be Miles or Francisco, but it didn’t feel right, wasn’t exact. 
Munroe dropped her head to her knees and let out a deep sigh.
“It wasn’t me,” Bradford said.
Munroe raised her head, and Bradford continued, “I can count. There aren’t many people to pin the blame on, 
“and I’m the one you hate the most and trust the least— that makes me the prime candidate, but it wasn’t me, Michael.”
“Concerned I’m going to leave you here?”
“I should be, but I’m not.” He was calm, his voice low, and his head was still tilted up. 
“I’m concerned that by focusing on me you’ll be misdirected. Figuring out where this is coming from has become a matter of self-preservation for me as well.” 
He paused and then looked out into the darkness. “I know how you feel about Francisco. I hope you haven’t let it cloud your judgment.”
Munroe returned her head to her knees, and an exhausted smile played across her face. Respect for Bradford had just moved up a notch. 
“I don’t hate you, Miles,” she said, “and I trust you more than you think I do.” 
And then she was aware of Francisco’s presence. He moved like a cat through the bush, stealthy and quiet in their direction. 
In the dim light of the smoldering ground fire, she saw the cords along Bradford’s neck tighten and knew that anger seethed beneath the surface. 
She knew that he, too, was aware of Beyard’s presence. 
And then Beyard stepped into the light carrying with him a pair of forest rats. 
He sat at the edge of the tarp, back turned while he skinned and gutted. 
Munroe watched the flick of his wrist and the knife as it splayed meat and bone, 
understood the sting of betrayal and knew that, barring intervention, tonight someone would die.
She stood and opened the back door of the vehicle, reached under the seat and released two of the PB6P9s housed there. 
The suppressors were already in place, and Munroe snapped in magazines, her ears strained to create a visual picture of what went on behind her back, quiet out of habit, not concern. 
The two outside were consumed with distrust of each other and in their wariness would be oblivious to her actions until it was too late. 
And then she turned and leveled a gun at each man. Bradford looked up, lips tight and eyes hard. 
Beyard sighed, said, “Not this shit again,” and continued working the knife.
Munroe said, “Scoot the knife this direction, if you please.” Beyard did as she said, and she tossed a roll of duct tape at each of them. 
She nodded at Bradford. “His feet.” And then to Beyard, “The same to you.” 
When their feet had been secured, she had Beyard fasten Bradford’s wrists, 
and then, with the weapon pressed to his spine, she used her free hand to tape his in place. 
When both men were secure, she had them shift so that their backs were to the vehicle, Bradford at one wheel, Beyard at the other.
The forest rats that Beyard had skinned lay on a rock next to the fire. 
Munroe placed them on sticks above the coals, then picked up Beyard’s knife off the ground and felt the balance and weight of it in her palm. 
When the blade began to call out, screaming to be used, she shoved it into the ground at the feet of the men.
She sat cross-legged in front of them and nodded to Beyard. “So? Go ahead and say it.”
He was silent for a moment and then turned to Bradford. “And to think I actually liked you. 
“You’re a motherfucking double-crossing traitor. You fucking sold us out—” Beyard’s voice cut off, and he made a lunge for Bradford.
Munroe kicked his feet. “Hey!” She aimed the gun at his chest. “Cut it out.”
Beyard stopped and struggled back to a sitting position.
“Miles, what about you?” she asked.
“It could only have been one of the three of us,” he said, “and it wasn’t me.”
“Fucking hell it wasn’t,” Beyard said.
Munroe stood, picked up the knife, and walked to the fire. 
Pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and events that previously had no meaning had been given context. 
Behind her the men’s voices got louder. They talked over each other, accusations flying, their verbal sparring a cacophonous backdrop to her reflections. 
She stabbed at the smoking meat. Why give a shit over being tracked and killed by the country’s armed forces when the job would be taken care of tonight by two alpha males waiting to carve out each other’s hearts? 
The racket from behind her reached a dangerous volume, and she turned and let off a round between the men, the bullet spitting up dirt. 
“Shut the fuck up,” she said. “Both of you.”
The two men were inclined toward each other. 
Beyard had a trickle of blood flowing down the side of his face where Bradford had managed to get in a head butt. 
They both stared at her now, mouths open but silent.
“You’re going to have to call a truce,” she said. “Because I refuse to wake up tomorrow with one or both of you dead, 
“and if it means that I have to complete this journey with the two of you trussed up like goddamn guinea fowl, I swear to God I’ll do it. 
“Look at you.” She pointed with the guns. “Think for a minute, damn it. You’re both about to kill each other for the same fucking reason.” 
She stopped and took a breath. “For all you know, it could be me.”
“It’s not you,” Beyard said.
“Yeah. I know that. Thanks for the fucking vote of confidence. But the fact is, it’s probably not one of you either.”
“If not one of us, who?”
“Richard Burbank does come to mind.”
Bradford said, “You told him it would be at least a week, and you certainly didn’t give him details about the scanners or camo or anything else.”
“Logan has those details,” she said, and as the words left her mouth, her stomach churned, waves of exhaustion swept in, and she wanted to vomit. 
Logan was safety, he was sanity, a surrogate brother, the only home she had left. 
If he was the one selling her out, then it was game over. 
It wasn’t a matter of outsmarting him or exacting revenge, which wouldn’t be that goddamn difficult— if it was Logan, what was the fucking point?
Munroe looked at Beyard. “Did the radio say anything about the make of vehicles we were driving or how many? 
“Any information at all that the three of us and only the three of us would know?”
He shook his head.
“Think about the possibilities in that.” She sighed and sat down. “Look, we already know that Richard Burbank has his hands filthy in this. 
“The information could be coming from Logan— for all we know, Burbank’s got his phones tapped. 
“So the two of you just fucking chill and let’s work through this thing, okay?” 
She paused. “If I cut you loose, do I have your word that you’ll play nice?”
The nods of agreement were lackluster and noncommittal, but there nonetheless. 
She reached for the knife, stood, went to the fire, turned the meat over the coals, and then walked to the vehicle and cut their hands free. 
She backed away with a weapon toward each of them and said, “Don’t fucking move. 
“You can sit there comfortably while we talk about what the hell is going on and decipher what information we have to work with. After that you can undo your legs.”
Beyard rubbed his wrists and stared into the night. “If the information leak isn’t coming from one of us,” he said, “at this point it doesn’t much matter where it’s coming from.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Munroe said. She sat and placed the weapons on the ground, pressed her fingers to her temples. 
Survival mattered. And with the three of them now incommunicado, the leak, wherever and whoever it was, could go fuck itself.
Her mind, exhausted as it was, shifted into analysis mode. 
Survival would depend on who in the country was acting on the information, 
what resources that person had at his disposal, and how long he could keep up the hunt.
With the farce of a coup having been used to flush them out, there were really only two possibilities: 
Either this thing went all the way up to the president or to someone close to the president— 
and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who was pushing the president’s buttons.
Munroe stood and to Beyard said, “Have you worked a theory yet?”
“Partially.”
“Good.”
She walked to the vehicle, trained a weapon at Beyard, who was closer, and said, “Don’t move.” 
And then with her free hand she reached into the back, pulled out the laptop and the drive that held the footage of Emily, loaded the drive, and brought the computer to Beyard. 
“We have to look in two directions; there are two sets of motives. There’s Richard Burbank, and there’s here. 
“I’ve got Burbank’s angle. I want you to watch this,” she said. “I need you to analyze this from the Mongomo perspective.”
The footage ran for nearly forty-five minutes, and when it was finished, Beyard returned to the spots where Emily spoke of being captured and of her treatment by the man she now called her husband. 
Beyard replayed the segment several times, then shut the laptop and handed it back. “If she’s to be believed, Nchama’s been trying to protect her.”
“You’re kidding,” Bradford said. “The guy lies to her, beats her, locks her up, spies on her, and for all we know rapes her, and you’re saying he’s trying to protect her?”
Munroe closed her eyes and held out a finger to Bradford. “He may have been telling the truth, Miles, and for the rest, it’s acceptable to the culture.” 
She paused. “Please, if you don’t mind, just stay quiet for a few minutes.” And then to Beyard, “Go on.”
“Nchama told her that her life was in danger, and all events that we’ve seen so far indicate that he believed this himself. 
“I would venture that his trying to protect her is why you were dumped into the ocean— he believed you were a threat.”
“Why would he think that?” Bradford asked.
Munroe held her hand to him as if to say, Be quiet, but Beyard answered anyway. 
“It’s a logical assumption,” he said. “Whether Nchama was deliberately informed of your arrival and then misinformed of your motives— 
“and I suspect that Richard Burbank would be the one to have done it— 
“or whether your presence and questions triggered his fear, either way you are there, asking questions about Emily. 
“The result is the same. The threat from which he initially tried to protect her has returned, and it forces his hand.”
“That would explain Malabo and Bata,” Munroe said. “But the alleged coup? That’s far more serious. Are we ruling out the president in this?”
Beyard shrugged. “Untangle the web, Essa. What do we know? Where is the foundation? What holds everything together? Where do the connectors lead?” 
He paused. “Return to Occam’s razor. With as few assumptions as possible, what takes all circumstances into account and explains what we see? 
“With what little we hold certain, does anything point to the president?”
Munroe stared at the ground. Her mind ran in circles. Events. Threads. She pushed out. Stretched. Returned. 
Where Emily had once been the common strand, there stood Richard Burbank. “No,” she said. “At this juncture nothing points to the president.”
Beyard nodded. “Then we return to Nchama, and we assume that the hunt for us will continue until we are either dead or gone from this place.”
Munroe looked toward Beyard. “Based on the footage, based on events, Nchama cares about Emily, sure,” she said. “He’s trying to protect her, sure. 
“But does he care so much that he’s willing to put his own life on the line should the president realize there is no coup?”
They were all silent.
“For what does a man risk his own life?” Beyard asked.
Munroe said nothing. She stared again at the ground, tracing her fingers through the soil, taking them along the virtual paths that her mind traveled. 
Forward. Back. There again. Occam’s razor. Simplicity.
She turned to Beyard. “A man risks his life to save it from the greater fear.”
Richard Burbank.
They were quiet again, and the moments ticked by. 
Finally Bradford said, “This whole time, all your theorizing, it’s all based on the supposition that Richard wants Emily to remain unfound or, worse, dead. 
“After what Emily said, I’m not going to argue it, but seriously, why would he go through all the trouble and expense of hiring you to track her down 
“when if he’d just let it rest none of this would have happened in the first place?”
“Because you pushed him into hiring me,” Munroe said. “He was appeasing you, keeping up the act of grieving father. 
“For some reason he believes it’s important that you buy into his story. Maybe you know something he’s afraid of. 
“Maybe he knows how close you were with Elizabeth, is worried that she told you something, I really don’t know.”
Munroe pressed her palms to her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay, backtrack,” she said. 
“We know now that from the beginning Richard Burbank knew that Emily was alive and, more important, where to find her. 
“I’m not the first person he’s hired to track her down, and I’d venture to say he’s spent a hell of a lot more money during the first four years than he did to hire me. 
“The difference is that success in locating her created an unexpected complication. 
“Once we started getting close, Burbank had to act— that’s why he closed down the project, why he didn’t want you coming back to Africa. 
“You’d seen the death certificate, didn’t know that Emily was alive, and he could work with that, 
“but by getting in touch with me, by insisting on returning, you effectively signed your own death warrant at Burbank’s hand.”
“But still, why? Why does he need Emily to be missing?” Bradford hesitated. “Or dead?”
“It’s money, Miles, it has to be. Haven’t you ever wondered why Richard waited until Emily was almost eighteen before legally adopting her? 
“He was her stepfather for… what? Around ten years? If he really cared, if it was to mean something, why not adopt her when she was young? 
“You’re a smart man, Miles. Surely you must have considered this.
“You said Richard wanted Elizabeth to change her will, and that indicates that there was either a prenup or some other legal mechanism that prevented him from inheriting. 
“Maybe Richard had hoped that Elizabeth would change her mind over time, and she didn’t. 
“By adopting Emily when he did, Richard gave himself options— inheritance rights through Emily. 
“He probably thought that if it ever came down to it, he could manipulate Emily in a way that he couldn’t manipulate her mother.
“This is a man who at the very least abandoned his stepdaughter in the middle of Africa and has thwarted efforts to find her, 
“and I wouldn’t be the tiniest bit surprised to find out that Elizabeth’s death wasn’t a suicide. 
“It was very convenient for him, I think, to have Emily tucked away here in the land that time forgot, everyone believing she was dead, though she is still very much legally alive and able to inherit. 
“Once Emily died, which was probably in the plan, the fortune would transfer to him.”
Bradford shook his head. “You can’t possibly believe that Richard planned all this, got Emily into Equatorial Guinea and had her kidnapped?”
“Burbank is an opportunist, Miles. I think he hoped something would happen to Emily while she was in Africa, 
“even gave her a little shove in the right direction by suggesting Equatorial Guinea. 
“And then when something did go wrong, he pounced on it and made it work for him. 
“If none of this had happened, if Emily had gotten home safely, I have no doubt that some other tragedy would have occurred— Elizabeth first, then Emily.”
“Have you ever been wrong?”
Munroe was quiet for a moment and then said, “Yeah. I’ve been wrong.” Another pause. “But not with this. 
“Burbank is patient, he’s waiting it out; in another three years he can make Emily’s a legal death and take it all, so long as she never shows up to challenge the claim.” 
Munroe stopped, tilted her head up, and took in a steep drink of air. She whispered, “Only now there’s a glitch in the plan. You and I know where she is.” 
Munroe held eye contact with Beyard. “Until now Emily has been safe, but unless we disappear and the information we have disappears with us…
“Fuck,” Munroe said, and then, with the implication permeating the air, she stood, turned her back on the two men, and stared out into the night.
“So what do we do?” Beyard asked. “Go back and get her?”
In answer to that impossibility, Munroe said nothing, and Beyard continued. “You thought you were doing the right thing by leaving her. 
“You were trying to protect her, couldn’t have known all this at the time. Neither did I.”
“It makes no difference to her what my motives were,” Munroe said. “Dead is dead.”
The silence was broken by Bradford. His eyes were closed, and he knocked the back of his head against the vehicle. 
“I. Am. So. Fucking. Stupid,” he said. A head bang for every word. 
Munroe locked eyes with Beyard, and then they both turned to Bradford.
“I don’t pretend that it makes sense,” Bradford said. “I don’t understand why Richard would need or care about the money, but Emily has a trust. 
“When Elizabeth died, everything Emily inherited went into the trust until she could be located. 
“There’s a board that manages it, and they’ve been writing the checks for the searches. It’s the trust that’s paying you, not Richard.” 
He turned to Munroe, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have suspected tears. 
“I signed an affidavit,” he said. “Richard said he’d back the project again if I’d sign an affidavit stating everything I knew, including the details of Emily’s death certificate. 
“I was so fucking blinded by wanting to find Emily that all I could think about was keeping on the job. I never suspected ulterior motives.” 
Bradford looked at his watch. “The board is meeting in five days, and he’s taking the affidavit to them.”
“What does that mean?” Beyard asked.
Munroe said, “He’s going to try to sell the board on the affidavit in lieu of the actual death certificate to get them to turn over her trust.” 
To Bradford she said, “What do you think the chances are that the board accepts it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, I just don’t know. Based on their past decisions and what they’ve authorized in order to find her, I tend to doubt it.”
Munroe sighed. “If they don’t, then either we permanently disappear or Burbank is going to need physical evidence of Emily’s death.” 
She sat, wrapped her arms around her legs, and placed her chin on her knees. 
“Or,” she said, “we can cut Burbank off at his feet and get proof of Emily’s being alive in front of the board.”
Bradford said, “But will Emily be safe until then?”
Munroe stared into the forest. “I don’t fucking know, but what choice do we have? 
“Until we can unravel the relationship between Burbank and Nchama— until we can nail Nchama’s motives and his fears— figure out what role he plays in all of this and why, there are just so many goddamn fucking unknowns.” 
She paused and again pressed her palms to her eyes. “Emily is the mother of his children. 
“Nchama has kept her alive all these years— the footage truly points to his trying to protect her— 
“so it makes sense that she should be okay for at least a few more days.”
Munroe returned to staring toward the jungle and, as if thinking out loud, said, “I could use a goddamn phone right about now.”
“What would you do if you had one?” Beyard asked.
“Call Burbank and pass along misinformation— give us a chance to sort through this shit. 
“If he’s convinced we won’t make it out of here, it should also buy Emily more time.”
“I’ve got a phone at one of the cut sites,” Beyard said. “I’ve got a couple of trucks there, too.”
To Bradford, Munroe said, “Excuse us for just one minute,” and then she switched to French and said to Beyard, 
“If they find us anywhere near the cut site, there’s a chance they’ll link this to you. Your cover in this country will be permanently blown.”
“If they find us there, then yes, that is a valid concern,” he said, “although it is not the loss of cover that worries me. 
“I think you overestimate the chances of our getting out of this mess. If having access to the phone will make a difference…” His voice trailed off. 
He stared into the darkness, and Munroe knew that he was running probabilities: risk against reward, life against death. 
“There’s also the issue of time,” he said. “If we keep going the way we are now, it’ll take us a week to get to the coast. 
“If we take the tracks to the site and switch out with a truck, we can use the roads and be at the coast within twenty-four hours.” 
And then he smiled a sad half smile. “Maybe this forces me to again consider life beyond Africa.”
“We’ll move in the morning,” she said. “We keep the destination to ourselves. 
“Information to our friend is on a need-to-know basis— if anything goes wrong, it’s down to you and me.” 
Beyard nodded, and then in English to both of them Munroe said, “Are you guys good? No fighting? No blood?”
There was still reluctance in the agreement, but less than there had been earlier. 
Munroe reached the knife between their ankles and slit the tape, Bradford first and then Beyard; it would be a sleepless night.
Bradford looked at the dried blood and the swelling under Beyard’s left eye. “Sorry about your face.”
“Maybe one day I’ll have the chance to return the favor,” Beyard said. And then he laughed, stood, and stretched his legs. 
He stepped toward Munroe, crooked an arm around her neck, drew her near, and kissed her forehead. 
“Listen,” he whispered, “you have got to fucking stop pointing guns at me and tying me up.”
She gave him a wry smile. “He would’ve killed you tonight. He might still try.”
She turned toward Bradford. “I accept responsibility for the decision to leave her behind. 
“If I’d known then what I know now, I would have done it differently.… 
“I am going to do everything in my power to put an end to this.”
Bradford nodded. “I know.”
They took the night in shifts, and but for a time or two when Munroe drifted off, 
she spent the hours wary of the latent animosity between the men, ready to intervene if necessary, 
and with headphones over her ears, hoping to pick up some piece of information off the silent scanners.

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chapter 19 Turnoff to Ebebiyín, Cameroon
The road was dry, the atmosphere hazed by harmattan— fine Saharan dust blown from the north— which clouded the sky, cut visibility, and filled the horizon with the orange-tinged illusion of smog and pollution. 
Munroe checked the rearview mirror, caught the outline of Beyard’s vehicle, 
and returned her focus to the pothole-pitted road ahead, stopped and shifted into four-wheel drive.
She worked the clutch and gas heading down, then up, a chunk of missing road that had most likely washed out during a previous downpour. 
Bradford stared out the passenger window with his arms crossed. 
It was more or less the same silent position he’d held since Douala and under the circumstances probably as close as he could get to turning his back to her. 
Whatever the mood, he was certainly entitled to it; she’d been treating him like crap since he’d returned to Cameroon, 
and though it would eventually be necessary to make nice, now wasn’t the time.
They had left Douala before dawn, routing east to Yaoundé and then south, the quality of the road rapidly deteriorating the closer they drew to the border. 
Entering Equatorial Guinea from Cameroon was inconvenient at best. 
The countries were separated at the coast by the Ntem River, and where the water no longer delimited them, the countryside was thick with dense forest, 
through which village populations were able to traverse on foot, often unaware of the exact place one country ended and another began. 
There was only one vehicular transit point along the 120-mile stretch, and they were now driving down the road that led to it.
A gate barring the road and a small building standing next to it marked the entrance into Equatorial Guinea. 
Munroe slowed to a stop. By all appearances the checkpoint was deserted. 
When after a minute no official exited what should have been an office, she switched off the engine and stepped into the afternoon heat.
The one-room structure was empty, bare-board walls with a cement floor and holes for windows, 
and the only sound came from the insects that buzzed along the ceiling. 
Munroe stood in the doorway for a moment, then turned and walked toward the metal barricade. 
It was held in place to adjacent poles by three chains, which meant they would need to locate three officials, each with a separate key. 
The border didn’t close until five, but with the post deserted, traffic nearly none, 
and it being midafternoon, the authorities were no doubt already finished for the day. 
It wasn’t too much of a stretch to expect that at least one of them had already returned to his village, taking the key along for the evening.
Through the dust caked on Beyard’s windshield, she could see him leaning on the steering wheel, eyes following her movements, 
and when she strode toward him, he stepped out of the vehicle. “Three locks,” she said, “empty office.” 
She stared in the direction of town. Somewhere along those streets, in some bar or hotel or restaurant, 
was an unknown face expecting her to arrive within the week, waiting to pass along the word and thus guarantee that she never made it to Mongomo.
If they’d come to the country under any other pretense or if they’d had more time, perhaps a wiser move would have been to turn back, head west, and then cut tracks across the unmarked border. 
Here they were set out like targets on a firing range, and if the artifice of an Israeli convoy was transparent, they’d know it soon enough.
Women and children approached the vehicles, some trying to get Bradford’s attention through his window and others crowding around Beyard and Munroe, each offering items for sale. 
A boy of eight or nine balanced a dirty plastic basin filled with bananas on his head. 
Beyard examined a bunch and then pulled a handful of loose change from his pocket. 
He knelt down at the boy’s eye level, handed over the cash, and flashed Munroe a dashing smile; the unriddling of the missing officials had begun.
It took thirty minutes before they were able to locate the first official with his key, another forty to find the second. 
It was two hours before the third was found, and when he was, he was drunk and unable to locate the key 
until Munroe, unwilling to offer bribes or wait out the length of time it would take to play the game, began to name-drop. 
With the appropriate level of threat provided, the missing key was swiftly produced, and the convoy moved into the town of Ebebiyín. 
By now even the most incompetent of lookouts would be more than aware of their presence. 
If there had been someone waiting— and Munroe was sure that there was— no threat or whisper of awareness to the convoy’s intent had blown on the wind.
The village of several thousand was a gateway at the crossroads between Gabon, Cameroon, and Equatorial Guinea: 
a marketplace and hub of activity for miles to the west and south; 
a small grid of mostly unpaved roads and the whitewashed and red-stained buildings that fronted them; 
and like most rural towns on the continent, life here moved at a lethargic pace. 
It took less than ten minutes for the convoy to crawl through the sprawled, dusty streets, 
and when they were on the narrow but paved stretch that would take them to Mongomo and were far beyond the reach of townsfolk curiosity, Munroe turned the vehicle off the road.
Verdurous vines that thrived in the open light of the swath of tarmac created a wall of green on either side of the road, 
and so, in view of any vehicle that might pass, Munroe and Beyard moved quickly, 
switching out Cameroonian plates and papers for Equatoguinean, stashing the old ones behind door panels, 
and minutes later they headed back onto the road in vehicles registered in the name of the country’s president. 
There were still eighty kilometers to Mongomo, and with the improved road conditions it would be possible to reach the city by early evening. 
But they would wait until tomorrow’s dawn; it would be far better to approach the target house with a full period of daylight ahead, and staying in Mongomo overnight created too much exposure.
A half hour after dark, they went off-road, following a track that connected a small village to the Mongomo road. 
In the hour since Ebebiyín, they had covered forty kilometers, the empty stretch taking them past an occasional bush taxi, 
several abandoned and cannibalized cars, and expected roadblocks; nothing out of the ordinary that would signal awareness to their presence and the relative silence among the local military frequencies so far confirmed that all was in order.
Before reaching the designated village, the convoy detoured into the bush, where they would bide the night well hidden in the black of the forest. 
In the dark, Munroe felt for the vehicle’s communications equipment, 
and when she had disconnected it, she placed the pieces into a duffel bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and opened the door. 
She stepped into the night, and Bradford said, “Where are you going?”
She nodded to the rear. “Other vehicle,” she said, and although she knew it was unnecessary, added, “Keep the lights off and, unless you want to get devoured by mosquitoes, the doors and windows shut. 
“Don’t run the air conditioner— the engine noise will attract attention. I’ll be back at dawn.” 
She shut the door before he had a chance to respond, knowing he’d hate her all the more for it.
Munroe slid into the backseat of the rear vehicle. Francisco was in the front, reclined, hands behind his head, and when she shut the door, he brought the back upright and climbed between the front seats to where she was. 
His foot hit the duffel bag. “What’d you bring?”
“Everything that transmits.”
He slid next to her and maneuvered her onto his lap so that she faced him. “Still don’t trust him?”
“Not enough to leave it with him overnight,” she said.
His hands were already inside her shirt. 
She removed his uniform, and like two teenagers on a forbidden tryst, hormones transcending heat and discomfort, they left the interior of the vehicle as damp and humid as the air outside.
It was well past midnight before they finally returned to the front and reclined the seats in an attempt to sleep through what was left of the night. 
The mirrors of the lead vehicle reflected dim specks of canopy-filtered moonlight, and Francisco nodded in their direction. 
“You didn’t need to bring the equipment,” he whispered. “You know he’s not the one trying to get you killed.”
Munroe stared out the passenger window.
“I see the way he looks at you when your back is turned,” Francisco said. 
He paused and turned his head toward her. “You’re a very perceptive woman, Essa. You can’t help but know that he wants you alive as badly as I do.”
“I’d have thought it would bother you, and instead you advocate for him.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “It does bother me. I want him away from you, I want you to myself.” 
He sighed. “But I don’t own you, and that’s beyond my control.” 
He turned and faced front again. “All I’m saying is that I know the torment, and there’s no need for you to be deliberately cruel.”
She closed her eyes. It was so much more than that. 
Until the unknowns became clearer, it was difficult to discern how far Bradford could be trusted, and keeping him off balance was the easiest way to gauge him. 
Munroe put her feet up on the dashboard and drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. 
Didn’t want to talk about anything, really, because as unplanned as it was, history was about to be repeated: 
A trio of two foreign men and a woman would be heading into Mongomo, and no matter what they found when they reached the city, the proverbial shit was going to hit the fan.
Though none of them would readily admit it, they all knew that getting back out was going to be dicey. 
Tonight was the calm before the storm.
Calm.
Munroe breathed again and felt the relaxation of assignment wash over her.
THEY ENTERED MONGOMO in the early morning while the streets were still in the beginning stages of bustle and activity. 
For a village on the edge of civilization, one completely surrounded by the wide, sweeping grandeur of lush vegetation and without direct access to any center of industry, 
Mongomo showed surprising modernity, testament to the windfall of oil money finding its way to the extended families of the clan that filled the presidential palace.
Shortly after eight they stopped in front of the city’s police station, 
and while Beyard waited with the vehicles and continued to scan the local frequencies, Munroe and Bradford sought out the highest-ranking officer available. 
Once pleasantries had been dispensed, Bradford, acting as Munroe’s superior, spoke emphatically, a foreign-sounding nonsense that Munroe, very much the younger male subordinate, interpreted as a request for assistance. 
The officer obliged by providing an aide to direct them to the house of Timoteo Otoro Nchama, vice minister of mines and energy.
The dwelling was a single story, spaced widely from its neighbors and set ten meters off a quiet unpaved street 
whose outlet narrowed into a verdant footpath that led toward rough cinder-block houses and, beyond them, the jungle forest. 
Munroe drove by the house once and then, leaving Beyard stationed at the street entrance in the second vehicle, 
returned the guide to his workplace, a tactical gesture that had nothing to do with kindness.
On the second sweep, Munroe made the full length of the street to the narrowed outlet before looping back to park in front of the house. 
The lack of vehicles fronting the house pointed to the minister’s being away from home, 
and the ease of access to the property meant a smaller chance of being trapped should the encounter proceed in a less than favorable direction. 
It also meant being visible from the street, and by the pedestrians and neighbors who had already begun to take notice of their presence.
Munroe and Bradford walked the distance to the front door, and she stood to the side, out of sight. 
Bradford rapped a three-beat knock on the heavy wood, and in the silence they waited. 
There’d been shadows in the windows during the first pass, and Beyard had already confirmed that no one had left the house since. 
Another moment of silence, and at Munroe’s nod Bradford knocked again.
His hand was coming down on a third try when the door opened and an older woman with a worn dress and flat shoes looked out at him with disinterested annoyance. 
From her appearance Munroe assumed maid or nanny, but it was difficult to tell, she could just as easily be mother or sister. 
The woman spoke no English, and as Bradford could not converse in any of the local languages, he handed her his business card and motioned for her to carry it inside.
A few minutes later, the woman returned and gestured for Bradford to follow. 
Munroe joined him, and though the woman showed initial surprise at Munroe’s emergence, she led them both to the interior of the house with apparent acceptance and without comment. 
They had gone only a few steps when a petite blond woman entered the foyer at a brisk pace and, seeing Bradford, stopped short, gaped, and then burst into tears. 
The cherubic teenager from the high-school photo had been replaced by a woman aged beyond her years.
There was a second of uneasy quiet filled by sobs, and then Bradford said, “Heya, kid,” and walked toward Emily and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. 
She buried her head in his chest, her shoulders quivering with each rapid inhale, and Bradford stroked her hair and in a half whisper said, “Hey, it’s all going to be okay.”
He looked toward Munroe with a distressed smile. From here they were winging it. 
Emily had disappeared four years ago, now she was found, and with the exception of Munroe having faced two attempted military executions, nothing more was certain.
Munroe felt a wave of disequilibrium; after everything that had come before, reaching the target now had been unsettlingly simple.
Emily straightened and sniffed, and through tearful laughter she said, “Come on in, let’s sit down.” 
Her words were strained, as if this were the first English she’d spoken for as long as she’d been missing. 
To the woman who had answered the door and now hovered in the shadows, she said, “Nza ve belleng café.”
Munroe smiled in recognition of the Fang language and shifted so that the camera lens attached to her lapel faced Emily directly. 
It was the most straightforward and least intrusive way to document whatever would transpire, and there were two machines establishing a record of it: one was snuggled in her shirt pocket and the other was with Beyard, receiving the signal wirelessly.
Emily led them to the living room and sat on the oversize sofa. 
Bradford sat next to her, and she glanced at him repeatedly, each time a smile breaking through the etched lines of distress on her face. 
They were smiles of innocence, shock, nervousness, confusion, but most of all unadulterated happiness. 
Whatever Beyard’s suspicions, this girl wanted to be found, no doubt about it, which begged the question, 
why in the four years that she’d been missing had she not contacted her family?
Emily turned to Munroe and hesitated. Bradford said, “Emily, this is Michael.” 
Munroe stuck out her hand, and Emily shook it, with another smile.
“Your family has been trying to find you for the past four years,” Bradford said, “and Michael is the one responsible for finally tracking you down.”
Emily withdrew her hand, the smile fading as she tilted her head to the side, squinting as if processing what had just been said, and then she turned to Bradford and said, “What?”
Munroe said, “Emily, we’re here to assist you if you want it. 
“We’ve come prepared to get you out of the country. Is this something you’re interested in?”
Emily nodded slowly. “It is,” she said, “but I don’t understand. Why now? I’ve been asking to go home since I got here.”
Bradford glanced at Munroe, and she gave him a look back that could only be interpreted one way: 
Either Emily had gone batty or they had a major fucking problem. Probably the latter. 
Munroe’s heart pounded, her mind drawing threads of thought into a partial tapestry, then she paused, knowing the answer to her next question before the words left her mouth. “Emily, who have you asked?”
Emily began to reply and stopped when the maid entered the room with a tray of cups. 
She set it on the coffee table, and Emily folded her hands in her lap and waited. 
The seconds passed, each one a painful breath, until at last the woman left the room.
“I don’t trust her,” Emily said. “I don’t think she speaks English, but I don’t know for sure. 
“She’s my husband’s aunt, and she reports everything I do to him.”
Munroe stepped to the couch and knelt in front of Emily so that their eyes were almost level. 
“We came to get you out of here, to bring you home if that’s what you want. Is it what you want?”
Emily nodded.
“Then listen carefully,” Munroe said. “I’ve been nearly killed twice trying to get to you, and chances are whoever tried before is going to try again if they find out we’re here. 
“The information we’ve been given and what you’re telling us contradict, 
“and if we don’t get the facts sorted out soon, we might not make it out of the country alive— meaning that if you’re not killed along with us, you’ll be stuck here. 
“Emily, we need to know who you’ve asked about returning home, who is keeping you here, and who is trying to kill me. Can you help us with this?”
“I asked my dad,” Emily said. “It took me a long time, maybe a year, but I finally got through to him, and when I did, he was angry and refused to talk to me.” 
Emily’s words were starting to flow, her speech was less stilted, and the fluency— even the accent— was returning. 
“I was able to contact him only that once, and I’ve never been able to speak with my mom. 
“I’ve also asked my husband so many times. I used to think that one day he’d let me go, but now he hits me if I bring it up, so I’ve stopped asking.” 
A tear dropped from her cheek onto her lap, and she sniffed and ran her fingers under her eyes. 
“He says that by keeping me here he’s doing me a favor, that without him I would be dead, and that I can never leave and I should be grateful.” 
She lowered her eyes. “So I really don’t understand why you’ve come now.”
“Where is your husband right now? Malabo?”
“I think so.”
“The people who tried to kill me are hired Angolan forces that normally take orders from the president. 
“Does your husband have connections that would allow him to use them for other purposes?”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know about his business or work. 
“I know some of his family. He’s the president’s nephew, and his brothers are important.”
“Is he the only one keeping you? Are there others?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think he’s the main one.” 
She looked to Bradford. “I have no money, and people in town, they all know me. If I leave, someone will see me and tell my husband. 
“I tried. He found me before I got out of the country, kept me locked in the house for a few months until I promised I wouldn’t leave again.”
“We’ll get you out,” he said. “You have my word on that.”
“I have two boys,” Emily said. “One is two and a half and the other almost a year old— what about them?”
Bradford nodded. “We have passports for you and the children.”
“I’ll go pack,” Emily said, and Munroe put a hand on hers to stop her. “We’re going to leave the house with you in the clothes you’re wearing. 
“You’ll want to tell your husband’s aunt that we’re going out to eat, and have her get the kids ready. She needs to believe you’re coming back in a few hours.”
Emily nodded and then called for the woman. When she had finished relaying the instructions and the woman had left the room, Munroe, puzzling over dots that had no apparent connections, said, “We don’t have a lot of time and don’t need every detail, “but as best as you can, could you tell us why and how you ended up here? Start with Namibia.”
Emily gave a forced smile and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “There were three of us,” she said. “Me, Kristof, and Mel. 
“We’d been traveling together since Kenya, had backpacked most of the east and south, wanted to go up the west coast, wanted to see if we could get as far as Nigeria and then fly back. 
“We didn’t have a lot of time, because my mom wanted me to come home and Mel had some stuff he had to get to. 
“We were in Windhoek and were trying to work out how to get to either Congo or Gabon, because Angola was too dangerous.
“We met this guy, his name was Hans something, and he and Kristof hit it off real well, because Kristof was German and Hans’s family had come from Germany. 
“He was a bush pilot, and he said he flew into Angola all the time, 
“and when he found out we were trying to get north, he said he was flying to Luanda that afternoon and offered to let us come along. 
“He said that in Luanda we could probably catch a boat or another flight into Gabon, and so we decided to do it. 
“I called home and spoke with my dad to let him know what we were planning and that I’d contact him as soon as we got to Libreville.”
Munroe caught Bradford’s eye. His brows were furrowed, and confusion was clearly written across his face. 
Any contact by Emily after Namibia would have been critical to finding her, 
and this conversation with its direct geographic reading had never been mentioned. 
Munroe was tempted to stop Emily and ask for clarification, but she didn’t.
“He said he was looking forward to me coming home,” Emily said, “and he asked if, since I was going to Gabon, I planned to visit Equatorial Guinea. 
“We hadn’t been, because there wasn’t much information on the country and it seemed more hassle than it was worth.” 
She paused as if thinking through the last statement and then looked at Munroe again and said, 
“He told me it’s where he had his exploration projects and about how wild and primitive it still was 
“and those legends about the old president and how he buried the national treasury outside his village.
“We flew to Luanda, and I think it was that same night we caught a cargo ship to Gabon. 
“We were in the capital for about three days and then decided to go overland into Cameroon. 
“That’s when I told the guys the stories from my dad about Equatorial Guinea, 
“and they thought it would be cool to travel to a country so few people went to, so we decided to go through Equatorial Guinea to Cameroon. 
“We got visas, and then, since I couldn’t get either of my parents on the phone, I wrote my dad an e-mail and told him where we were headed.”
“Why your dad?” Munroe interrupted. “Why not your mom?”
“Well, when I’d spoken to my dad when I was in Luanda, he told me my mom was visiting some of our friends at their ranch in Wyoming 
“and wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks, so if I e-mailed, to e-mail him and not her.”
Munroe glanced at Bradford for confirmation on the detail about Elizabeth’s visit to Wyoming, and Bradford shook his head, and Emily, apparently oblivious to the exchange, continued.
“We were on the road to Mongomo from Oyem, outside the city, and at the checkpoint some of the military started harassing us. 
“At the time it didn’t seem that big a deal— we’d been through this type of thing before in other places. 
“But then Mel started to freak out. A few days earlier, maybe a week, he’d started acting kind of strange, jabbering to himself, acting kind of paranoid sometimes. 
“But then he’d be normal, and we’d tell him what he’d done, and we’d all have a good laugh. But this time was different— he went completely crazy. 
“He was screaming, and then he attacked one of the soldiers, and then after that everything kind of jumbled together.” 
Her voice went flat, and she stared into the middle of the room. “They killed him,” she said. “Right there, with machetes, while Kristof and I watched. 
“And then Kristof started to run, and I didn’t know what to do, so I followed him. 
“We were running for a long time, and I almost got away. I think Kristof got away. 
“The last I saw him, he was running for the border, and then I got hit and passed out.
“When I woke up, I was in the city jail. I was covered with blood and bruises, and my arm was broken, and I think a rib or two was cracked. 
“My leg hurt really bad, too, so I think it was also broken. I had lots of cuts, I think from the machetes.” 
She reached down and lifted her dress above the knees, revealing thick scars on her legs, the recognizable product of deep gashes and no stitches. 
“I have more,” she said, “on my stomach and back. I don’t know how long I was there. 
“I woke up a few times and would just pass out again. The next thing I remember, I was in a clean room and not in as much pain, 
“and that’s when I first met the man who’s now my husband. He said he’d rescued me and that he knew who I was and he’d make sure I got home. 
“He was really nice to me. But he never sent me home. He promised he would when I got stronger, but there were delays. 
“It’s really hard to know how much time passed, but I think maybe three or four months later he told me my life was in danger and the only way to be safe was to marry him. 
“I tried to run away twice, and each time I got locked up. There were threats, and I got beaten a few times, and there were other things, too.” 
Emily paused and swallowed, looking around the room, and Munroe could tell that she was fighting back tears.
“I think it was about a year after I got here that I got ahold of a phone with international access. 
“I tried to call my mom, but the number had been disconnected.” 
She turned to Bradford. “Do they still live in Houston?” 
Bradford gave a hesitant nod. 
“So then I called my dad’s office.
“It was difficult getting through his secretaries, but I finally got him on the phone. It was very weird. 
“I told him who I was and where I was and that I wanted to come home but that the people here wouldn’t let me leave, and he told me never to call again. 
“Maybe he thought it was a prank call— I don’t know. I was never able to get in contact with him again, even though I tried. 
“One time I got caught on the phone and my husband beat me worse than any other time and told me never to do something so foolish again, that I had been stupid and risked my life.
“Around then is when I realized I was pregnant, and since it seemed that leaving wasn’t going to happen, 
“the only thing I could really do was try to make my life better here, 
“so that’s when I agreed to marry Timoteo and stopped running away or trying to make calls. Things have been more or less okay since then.”
THE TWO-WAY RADIO clipped to Munroe’s belt chirped and jolted her from the conversation. 
Bradford gave her a nervous glance; Beyard would attempt contact only if it was an emergency. 
Munroe unclipped the camera from her lapel and pulled the machine from her pocket, stuck the machine in Bradford’s hand. 
While she pinned the camera on his collar, she whispered, “We’re probably going to need this for more than just proving she’s alive.
“Get her to provide personal data for the camera, today’s date and place, date of birth, mother’s and father’s names— basically a statement. 
“It would be good if she could include some childhood memories that you and I wouldn’t know about.”
Bradford turned to Emily, his smile showing the stress of having heard the two-way go off. 
Munroe left the room and then, certain she was out of earshot, responded to the call.
“Get the front door open,” was all Beyard said.

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chapter 18
When Munroe returned to the apartment that afternoon, she found Miles and Francisco sitting at the kitchen table, empty bottles of beer between them, conversing like long-lost drinking buddies. 
Without intending it, she stared until the room grew silent, then rolled her eyes in disgust and walked to the bedroom. 
Whatever she’d expected upon returning to the flat, it wasn’t to see the two of them interacting like old friends. 
Was it some fucking mercenary code of brotherhood they could sniff off each other?
She dropped the items from her arms onto the bed and returned to the kitchen. 
The boys were still talking but weren’t as jovial as they had been, 
and when Munroe reached for a glass from one of the cupboards, Francisco caught her eye. 
She could see from the masked strain on his face that he was concerned about her reaction, 
and so, without acknowledging Bradford’s presence, she walked to the table, leaned in front of Francisco, and kissed him.
He responded by pulling her closer, kissing her harder, and from the corner of her eye she saw Bradford shift, visibly uncomfortable with this display of affection. 
She suppressed a wicked smile and whispered into Francisco’s ear. 
She might as well have lifted a leg and peed on him; she was marking territory, establishing dominance, 
letting Bradford know that regardless of what might have transpired between the two of them while she was out of the house, she was still the one running the show. 
Francisco reached for her hand and stood, and as he walked with her out of the room, he said to Bradford, “Make yourself at home.” 
Munroe glanced over her shoulder, saw genuine pain in Bradford’s eyes, and was satisfied.
In the bedroom Munroe knelt on the bed and wrapped an arm around Francisco’s neck, pulled him close, ran her hands up his chest, and kissed him. 
He returned the warmth of her mouth and then took hold of her wrists, stepped back, and said, “Don’t do it, Essa. I know this is manipulation, and it isn’t necessary.” 
And then he brought her hands to his lips. “Don’t try to control me— you already own me, what more do you want?”
The counterplay, the shift in control dynamics, and the challenge that came with it brought on the giddy urge to laugh. 
Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and put her cheek to his and with an ear-to-ear grin across her face whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He sat on the bed, pulled her down with him, and said, “There’s a lot we need to discuss,” 
and with her head resting on his shoulder he repeated what Bradford had told him. 
When he finished, Munroe stood and walked across the room to the window and stared into the compound. 
“I wish I would have known these things before taking the assignment,” she said.
“Does this validate your view of Miles as a threat?”
She turned toward Francisco. “If I understand it correctly, Miles wanted to find Emily, ran up against brick walls, and so manipulated Richard and used Richard’s money to get me to find her?” 
She let out an involuntary chuckle. “It’s brilliant, really.” She turned back toward the window. 
“If what he told you was true, and you seem to believe it is, then no, Miles is not a threat, at least not directly and not that he himself is aware of.” 
She shook her head slightly. “I’ve been set up to fail,” she said. “Fucking bastard.”
“Who?”
“Richard Burbank, the guy who hired me, the poor bleeding-heart father who’s so desperate to find his daughter. Him.” 
And then, seeing a look of puzzlement cross Francisco’s face, she said, “Never mind. You don’t have the information to understand where I’m coming from with this. 
“Has Miles made any phone calls, accessed the Internet since he’s been awake?”
“No. That I can guarantee.”
“And what are your views on his coming with us?”
“I believe under most circumstances he would be an asset. 
“He knows his shit— I’d take him on my team if he was accepting offers. Frankly, I’m tempted to make one. 
“Additionally, he knows this girl personally, and when we find her, that can only be a good thing.”
Munroe nodded. “Fine. What about the notebook? Do you have it?”
Beyard pulled the book from a drawer and handed it to her. Munroe opened and read. 
A smile formed at the corners of her mouth, and a few pages later she laughed. 
Who would’ve thought? The gun-toting tough guy was writing a romance novel, and from the looks of the notes it wasn’t his first.
Munroe found Bradford on the living-room sofa, hunched over the coffee table eyeing the chessboard. 
She sat down beside him. “Do you play?”
“It’s been a decade or more,” he said. “And I was never very good. You?”
“I used to play often with Francisco— obviously, it’s been a while.” She nodded toward the board. “I rarely beat him, but this time I’m giving him a run for his money.” 
She handed Bradford the notebook. “Have you been published?”
“Yeah,” he said, and his cheeks flushed color. “Four books.”
“I suppose we all have our little secrets,” she said, and smiled a half grin. 
And then, in seriousness, “We’re leaving at first light tomorrow. If you want in, you can have at it, but there are a few stipulations you’ll have to agree to. 
“One: You cannot under any circumstances contact anyone without my explicit approval— no calls or e-mails, period. 
“Two: If you become a liability, we will leave you wherever we are and you’ll have to work your own way out.”
“I can live with those.”
“And I’m no longer your job,” she said. “Whatever the terms were in your arrangement with Richard, they’ve changed. 
“I’m letting you come along because Emily knows you and it might come in handy when we find her. 
“You’re not coming to protect me or stick by my side, and you’ll have to agree to follow my instructions whether they go along with what you think is your assignment or not. Will that be a problem?”
“I’ll manage.”
She nodded. “Then welcome back.” 
She took a deep breath and said, “I wish you’d have told me about Richard from the beginning. 
“It might have saved me from getting dumped into the ocean, and we might already have found Emily by now.”
Bradford hesitated and then said, “Told you what about Richard?”
“That he wasn’t the one behind this whole assignment— you were. Not to mention that you were fucking his wife.”
Bradford drew a breath and his face grew hard, evidence she’d struck personal, pushed him far. 
Although she expected him to react, after a moment’s pause he said only, “I don’t get it, you think Richard is out to get you?”
“Did you tell Richard we were going to Malabo?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Bata?”
His whisper was so low she could barely hear it. “Yes.”
“I don’t have all the dots connected yet,” she said. “But it’s looking like Richard has had his hand in this somehow. 
“From the way Francisco tells it, you’ve been the main person concerned with finding Emily, regardless of how Richard represented himself to me. That’s a strike against him. 
“That Titan Exploration just happens to have its oil wells in the same country that Emily goes missing could be coincidence, 
“but I don’t think so— at the very least, Richard has governmental connections in Equatorial Guinea. That’s strike two. 
“Someone close to me has been feeding information to the bad guys— it’s the only explanation I have for some of the events that have taken place. Strike three.”
Bradford ran his hands through his hair and then stared up at the ceiling. 
His breathing was slow and deep, and finally he said, “But why?”
“I don’t know, Miles. There are a lot of unknowns at this point. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say it was money.”
Disbelief was written on Bradford’s face. “Richard has more money than God.”
“Maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t. I’m living proof that what you see is not always what it is. 
“You said Richard was trying to get Elizabeth to change her will. That says money. You’re a smart man, Miles. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it yourself.”
“You know, the thing with Elizabeth, I can understand that. 
“He was a crappy husband, and maybe it was about money then— that happened before Titan hit oil, before his big break. 
“But for all his faults, he is a good father, and he loves Emily, and he’s suffered a lot through this. 
“It may have been me pushing for it, but Richard has financed each step, never hesitated once. 
“It was only this past year that he started to protest, and it was never about the money. 
“It was because of the personal pain that came from not being able to let it go. Why would he want the one person who can find Emily killed? It makes no sense.”
“Maybe someone else is using him. There are too many unknowns, but I’m willing to place a hefty bet that when we find Emily, a lot of the answers will be waiting with her.” 
She stood. “And now I have to make a phone call that I wish I didn’t have to make.”
Munroe picked up the phone and dialed Burbank’s office. 
As before, she was immediately transferred to his direct line, but this time she was left on hold for at least five minutes. 
When he picked up the phone, the exhaustion in his voice carried through the wires. 
“It’s been a while, Michael. I’ve heard that things have been rough for you over there— I hope all is well.”
“Things are fine, Mr. Burbank,” she said. “As required, I’m calling to update you. 
“As I’m sure you’ve heard through Miles, and though it may be difficult to believe, we have eyewitnesses who’ve placed your daughter alive on the mainland of Equatorial Guinea, the latest sighting now within the last six months.”
“Yes,” he said. “It was amazing news, still is. Getting word about the death certificate was devastating, though a relief in a way. 
“It meant that we could lay her memory to rest. And then to follow that with the hope that she might possibly be alive, 
“it all seemed like such a cruel joke. I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster since.”
“I assure you the sources are genuine,” she said.
“What’s the next step?”
“Now that Miles is here, we’re waiting on a few details to get sorted out. 
“I’m estimating a week before we’re ready to return to Río Muni— the Equatoguinean mainland.”
“A week? That long?”
“About that, yes.”
“Thank you, Michael,” he said. “This is excellent news, 
“although honestly, I’m terrified of falling prey to false hope. Please let me know as things progress.”
“Of course.”
THE CALL OVER, Munroe turned to Bradford and then to Beyard, who had just entered the room. 
“If we’re lucky, we just bought ourselves a week.”

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chapter 17 Douala, Cameroon 
It was warm, but not in a suffocating way. Mosquito netting hung from the ceiling, draped in a kind of shroud.  
Miles Bradford blinked and then took a deep breath. He was on a narrow bed, still clothed, although his shoes were no longer on his feet.  
A row of small windows lined the left wall, and filtered light came through them, casting odd shadows about the room.  
His head hurt and he was hungry, and recollections of the last words he’d heard from Munroe tumbled around in his mind.  
He hadn’t expected to be greeted with a hero’s welcome, but a friendly “Hi and welcome back” wasn’t asking much.  
Sure, he’d gone against her wishes in returning to Cameroon, but it hadn’t called for this level of hostility.  
He should have expected it, though. The woman really didn’t play well with others. 
In other circumstances he would already have been at the windows, already gotten a bearing on the surroundings and known what the chances for getting out were, might have even knocked a few heads in, Munroe’s included.  
But this was different. He didn’t want to escape, he wanted her trust, wanted to be there when she went back to Equatorial Guinea to search for Emily— had to be there.  
He lay still for a moment and then, when he reached through the netting for the glass of water standing on the low table by the side of the bed, saw that he wasn’t alone in the room. 
In a chair to the right, a few feet away from the bed, sat a man with features slightly distorted by the folds of netting that separated them,  
and although the man’s head didn’t move, his eyes followed when Bradford shifted to reach for the glass.  
Without breaking eye contact, Bradford brought the glass to his mouth.  
The man had a strong, toned body, was a little taller than he, perhaps older.  
He had no visible weapons, and the way he was sitting indicated no ill intent or threat. 
Bradford drank the water in several long-drawn-out swallows,  
and when he had finished, the man leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and said, “Good morning.” 
Morning. How long had he been under? Bradford nodded in reply and held the glass lightly, ready to utilize it as a weapon if he had to.  
This was Munroe’s game; he would see where she was taking it. 
The man asked, “Do you know who I am?” Bradford remained silent,  
and the man said, “You are Miles Bradford, American, private security, mercenary, assist to Vanessa Munroe in this assignment of hers, am I correct?”  
The voice was rich with accent, and although the words were neutral, the tone had an edge and brought with it something else— a warning, perhaps. Bradford nodded again. 
“I am Francisco Beyard: gun runner, drug runner, businessman, and strategist.  
“It falls on my shoulders to decide your fate. Welcome to my world.” 
And then it made sense. Munroe’s missing years and the way she’d regrouped back on the Equatoguinean mainland as quickly as she had without money or supplies.  
These were old connections, and this man was a figure from her unknown past— “Vanessa’s” unknown past.  
Bradford drew himself up to lean back against the wall and said, “Am I here as a guest or a prisoner?” 
Francisco Beyard shrugged. “I would hardly call you a prisoner.  
“Escape from this room, from this house, would be fairly simple, and were you to vanish into the streets of Douala, it would make my job so much easier.  
“You have brought the supplies Vanessa needed, and so you are free to go anytime.  
“But you don’t want to leave, you are determined to return to Equatorial Guinea with us,  
“and that is why you and I are here in this room having this…” He paused. “This conversation.” 
“I’d like to talk to Michael if she’s around.” “I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see, Mr. Bradford…” “Miles.” Beyard nodded.  
“You see, Miles, I care nothing about this project of yours or this girl you hope to find.  
“My interest in this venture— my only interest— is protecting Vanessa.  
“As I understand it, you were the one responsible for bringing her into the assignment.  
“You were the one with her in Malabo when she was taken from the hotel and for some reason you were left untouched.  
“Now you insist on returning to Africa to accompany her, though your help is unneeded and unwanted.  
“This does not bode well for you. I’m sure you understand my position.” 
“I had nothing to do with what happened to Michael,” Bradford said. “I’m just as confused about the chain of events as I assume you are or she is.” 
“But you are extremely eager— even demanding— to accompany Vanessa back into the country. Why is that?” 
“It’s my job.” Beyard shook his head slightly. “It was no longer your job at one point, and yet you persisted.” 
“Look,” Bradford said, irritation breaking through in his voice, “I’ve known Emily and her family since she was a child.  
“I’ve been through hell with both of her parents while they tried to locate her— her mother eventually killed herself over this.  
“After four years of searching, we finally have a tangible trail to follow. I’m not going to let it go. I have a personal interest in bringing Emily home.” 
“And you don’t feel that Vanessa is capable of doing this?” 
Bradford began to say something and then stopped. No matter what he said, he would back himself into a corner. 
“What you’ve just told me,” Beyard continued, “Vanessa has also told me.”  
He paused and stared at Bradford, rubbing his thumb against his chin.  
“But this is not the primary reason you have returned. You know it, so do I, so does she.  
“In order to assess with certainty what threat you constitute to Vanessa— and by implication to myself— or to the assignment,  
“I need to understand what compels you to return, the things that run deeper that you are not telling.” 
“It is what it is,” Bradford said. “I don’t have anything more to tell.” 
Beyard stood. “As I suspected. And so I’ve made arrangements for you to fly back to Houston— your flight leaves tomorrow morning.  
“You will be sedated, and I will accompany you to the plane to be sure that you are on it.  
“I suggest that you don’t return or attempt to find us, and should you be so foolish as to try, I will personally see to it that you are stopped.  
“This is my home, Miles, and I am well connected. Do not underestimate me.”  
He turned to go. “There will be no more questions. I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll have food sent to you.” 
Bradford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t all bad.  
He could leave the house— it wouldn’t be that difficult— keep tabs on them, follow them.  
Yeah, right. Maybe on another continent, in another country, but not this one.  
He didn’t know the land or the language, didn’t have time to acquire resources and assets.  
Munroe would be traveling into remote areas, would know he was there and eliminate the threat she found in him.  
No, if he wanted to be there when Emily was located, the only way was by gaining Munroe’s trust.  
She had calculated this, was manipulating the situation and using this man, Beyard, as a buffer so that the only way to her was through him.  
There had been no bluff in Beyard’s voice, no malice. He presented an opportunity that would soon be gone.  
Bradford debated until Beyard’s hand was on the door and then said, “I loved her mother.” 
Beyard stopped, turned. “What guarantee do I have,” Bradford asked, “that this will be enough?” 
“None,” Beyard said, and returned to the chair where he’d been sitting. But motive is a powerful thing, and I need to know what yours is.  
“Ultimately Vanessa will make the call. I am… how should I say? I am the screening process.” 
“The truth is, I made a promise to her mother. The night before she killed herself, she made me swear I would bring Emily home.” 
“An oath is something I can understand,” Beyard said. “Why was it made?” 
“I loved her,” Bradford said. “It really is that simple.” 
Beyard nodded. “And this man Richard Burbank, the father, the one you manipulated into hiring Vanessa, he was no doubt unaware?” 
“Manipulated.” Bradford gave a quick snort and shook his head slightly. How much could they actually know?  
“Yeah, I manipulated Richard into hiring Michael, and no, he didn’t have a clue about the extent of the friendship that Elizabeth and I shared.” 
“So you are the one responsible for Vanessa twice having been nearly killed?” 
“Oh, I’m sure she’s been nearly killed many more times than that,” Bradford said, and then quickly followed with, “I was responsible for getting her hired,  
“but like I already said, I had nothing to do with what happened in Malabo or whatever the fuck else you’re talking about.  
“I certainly don’t want to see her dead. I want her to find Emily.” 
Beyard said nothing and, with arms crossed and legs stretched out, stared at Bradford while silence filled the room. 
Finally Bradford spoke again. “Richard introduced me to Elizabeth about a year after they’d been married.  
“We’ve never been friends, Richard and I. Acquaintances, business associates, I guess you could say.  
“We’ve worked together on and off over the years on assorted deals, and it was at some formal business event that I first met her.  
“No matter what it looked like on the outside, they weren’t happy. Richard is a controlling, demanding asshole, and it carried over into their marriage.  
“Elizabeth turned to me for advice, and in time we became very close.” Bradford’s voice caught, and he paused for composure.  
“I would have done anything for her, you know? God, I loved her.” He raised his eyes to meet Beyard’s. “Yes, we were lovers. 
“I was with her the day before she died— I’d gone to see her at the retreat where she’d been staying.  
“I’d been making fairly regular visits just to check on her, but on that particular day she was different, stressed, nervous, had difficulty focusing.  
“Richard had come to see her the day before to talk about her will.  
“Apparently everything she had was to go to Emily, and with Emily having been missing for nearly a year, Richard wanted her to rewrite the will.  
“For obvious reasons the conversation didn’t go well. Elizabeth refused to believe that her daughter was dead. Richard seemed to think otherwise. 
“She spent a lot of time talking about Richard, about him forcing her to make changes she didn’t want to make.  
“She made me promise that I would do everything I could to find Emily, that I would bring her home.”  
Bradford looked directly at Beyard. “I did, and the next day Elizabeth was dead.” 
Beyard was silent for a moment and then finally said, “Why Vanessa?” 
Bradford smiled. Almost laughed. “You’re from her past. I guess you don’t know much about her present.  
“Michael deals in information, and as far as I know, she’s the best there is at getting it.  
“You give her a scenario, a country, whatever it is, and she’ll find a way.  
“Doesn’t matter the language, the gender, cold, hot, war zone, military dictatorship, whatever— she gets it.  
“I used some of the stuff she put together for a couple of the security jobs I worked. It was always accurate, always good.”  
Bradford paused and brushed his fingers through his hair, sighed and stared toward the window.  
“I was running out of time. It had been four years since Emily’d disappeared, and I realized that unless we tried a different avenue, we’d keep turning up nothing.  
“I’d been watching Michael for a couple of years, had assembled something of a portfolio on her.”  
He stopped and looked at Beyard. “Before you start jumping to conclusions, my curiosity was purely professional— admiration, the way one artist admires the work of another.  
“Anyway, I knew that Michael’s assignment in Turkey was close to finished,  
“so I brought what I had to Richard and asked him to give it one last shot, told him that if Michael couldn’t track down Emily, nobody could, 
“and that he could know for certain that she was dead, and he could have the closure he wanted.”  
Bradford shrugged. “That’s pretty much it, from the beginning, my side of the story.  
“True to form, Michael began to deliver, and then we got to Malabo and the shit hit the fan, and I’m still trying to figure out what the hell happened.” 
Beyard put his hands on his knees and said, “Well, Miles, that’s a very interesting story.”  
He stood. “One last thing: I have been asked to collect a notebook. It’s inside your bag there.  
“I have seen it but prefer to allow you the courtesy of giving it to me rather than taking it from you.” 
“Is there any difference?” Bradford said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Either way I have no choice.” 
“A matter of semantics.” Bradford nodded, dug the notebook out of his bag, and handed it to Beyard. 
“Thank you,” Beyard said, and opened the door. “You’re free to leave, stay, wander, as you wish. Make yourself at home.” 
“I’d like to talk to Michael.” “She’s not here at the moment.” Beyard glanced at his watch. “Three hours, perhaps.” 

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chapter 16 Yaoundé, Cameroon 
It was shortly after five that afternoon when the bus pulled into the city’s depot.  
The area was hard-packed dirt surrounded by low-lying buildings, and teeming with passengers and their boxes and bags, vendors with their wares, and pickpockets and thieves. 
Munroe stepped from the bus and slung a heavy backpack over her shoulder.  
She wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt, untucked, faded jeans, and heavy, flat-soled boots, which hadn’t been easy to find.  
Her hair was military short. A wide elastic bandage wrapped her meager chest,  
the same improvisation utilized the night she’d boarded the Santo Domingo, and she wore strong masculine cologne.  
But for these she’d made no extra effort. The clothes and hair were subtle cues, enough to distract the eye and make a first impression,  
and while the subconscious effect of cologne was never to be underestimated, unless she needed to age past nineteen it had always been attitude and behavior that truly confused the mind. 
She took a cab to the Hilton Yaoundé, the best the city had to offer.  
The hotel was eleven stories of white concrete, and like a giant monolith it dwarfed most of the buildings that lined the streets in either direction.  
Yaoundé, although the capital, was smaller and less developed than its sister on the coast.  
But it was where the country’s president lived and thus where the elite guard was stationed,  
and so it was there that she would find the Israeli forces that trained them.  
She wanted to be in their presence, learn their language and their manner of behavior,  
and if possible observe how they interacted with the men they trained. 
Perhaps, if she’d been desperate, she would have taken the route of sneaking around, smuggling herself onto the compound, and acting like a spy, as Francisco no doubt expected she was doing.  
But there was no need for that. There were better ways, faster and with less personal risk. 
Munroe showered and slept for a few hours and then, as the evening deepened, transferred to the hotel’s bar and casino.  
There were only three types of venues where she expected to find what she was looking for:  
foreign cultural centers and embassies, international schools, and what little nightlife the city had to offer.  
The Hilton was as good a place as any to begin looking. 
It took two days of cultivating potential information sources before the first genuine lead materialized.  
After nights that lasted until nearly dawn and mornings that began shortly after, it was at La Biniou, taking a meal far too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, that segments of language, recognizable but without meaning, filtered across the dining area.  
The voices belonged to three teenagers, and it was evident that within the small group there were a sister and brother,  
and if body language was any indicator, the third was friend to one and surreptitious lover to the other. 
Munroe observed the three and was drawn to the sister.  
She was sixteen, seventeen at most, had curly dark hair, dark eyes, a beautiful smile, and a playful personality.  
She was the younger sibling, there with her girlfriend no doubt, and oblivious to the smoldering lust between the two across the table.  
She would make an excellent mark. If all other things were equal, Munroe would prefer a female.  
While men had to be bribed or threatened or their suspicions overcome while they were befriended to get them to spill their secrets over drink, women naturally loved to talk.  
And while it was no secret that a man would say most anything when desperate to get between a woman’s legs, that was not the way Munroe worked.  
Women, on the other hand, responded to attention,  
and while in the persona of a male she could bypass whatever insecurities the female form brought on and gain direct access to a woman’s mind.  
The problem was that things were very seldom equal. 
Munroe tapped her fingers lightly against the table and watched the trio over the top of a traveler’s guidebook.  
The girl would be the easiest way to the parents and, from them, to the rest of the community. 
She stood, walked to the table with the guidebook in hand, and in broken French and then fluent English introduced herself as Michael and asked for clarification on several of the book’s entries.  
She conversed with the brother and between words made eye contact with his sister and passed her a flirtatious smile or two.  
The brother was helpful, but it was the sister who invited Munroe to sit and join them,  
and at the end of forty-five minutes Munroe had also been invited to dinner at their house the following evening.  
In another place, another climate, the invitation might have seemed audacious,  
but not in the world of the Cameroonian expatriate, where the community was small and far away from home. 
The girl’s name was Zemira Eskin, and with that piece of information as well as the phone number and directions she’d been given, Munroe headed to the British cultural center.  
It took less than half an hour of chitchat to discover that she’d been invited to the home of Colonel Lavi Eskin, commander of the Israeli forces in Cameroon. 
The news brought Munroe’s plans in Yaoundé to a full stop.  
There was no point in digging further; contact with too many in the community would only backfire.  
She had no choice but to wait, and in the solitude Francisco filled her mind.  
He was disruption from the focus needed for tomorrow, broken strands of thought in the web of information her mind attempted to spin. 
Unable to concentrate, Munroe called the United States and after several attempts got through to Kate Breeden.  
The conversation was brief. Munroe received confirmation that the money had been wired to the account in Douala  
and reassured Kate that she was indeed alive and well and had no plans to reenter Equatorial Guinea, at least not until after Bradford arrived. 
And then Munroe called Francisco. Hearing his voice dropped her into a cocoon of warmth where it was dark and familiar and safe.  
The conversation lasted only long enough to pass on the transfer details,  
but what she wanted more than anything was to remain on the line, to drag out the information if only to continue to hear his voice.  
What she wanted was to return to Douala, to him. 
Munroe replaced the phone in its cradle and hung her head in her hands. This frame of mind was dangerous; it was how mistakes were made;  
it was why business and emotion were necessarily disparate; it was why she should have shut down that night outside of Bata.  
She could still do it— needed to do it— but didn’t want to.  
In the silence, voices filled her head, but they were not the demons from within— they were Francisco. 
It was nearly seven the following evening when Munroe stood at the gate in front of the house that Zemira had directed her to.  
The neighborhood consisted of large compounds, their upper stories and clay-tiled rooftops peeking beyond the eight- and ten-foot walls that surrounded them.  
Like most cities on the continent, Yaoundé had no street addresses or house numbers.  
There would never be mail service to the door— not even DHL or FedEx could manage that.  
Directions were composed of road names and landmarks, distance and neighborhoods, gate colors and house descriptions.  
And what Munroe faced now fit with what she had been given. 
Armed guards opened a walk-through portion of the gate and called ahead before allowing her onto the property.  
Zemira welcomed her at the door, and Munroe greeted her with a kiss on each cheek, each lasting only inappropriately long enough for the teenage imagination to flourish,  
and she then presented a bouquet of flowers. “For your mother,” Munroe said. 
“Ima,” Zemira called over her shoulder. “Come meet Michael.” 
Zemira’s mother was a petite woman who looked young enough to be her sister and left no doubt as to the origin of her daughter’s good looks.  
She introduced herself, took the bouquet with a gracious smile, and asked a few polite questions before returning to whatever part of the house she had come from. 
It was when they were seated at the table that Munroe met the compelling focus behind the trip to Yaoundé.  
Colonel Eskin entered the room, and seeing Munroe, he reached for her hand, and she stood to shake his.  
His lips smiled, his eyes said, If you touch my daughter, I’ll castrate you, and the rest of the table heard, “Welcome.”  
He was five foot eleven, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and what Munroe later realized was a delightfully dry sense of humor.  
By all appearances he was a husband and a father at home for dinner with his family,  
and if he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed, it was obviously not under this roof. 
“So, Michael,” he said, placing a helping of food on his plate, “Zemira tells me you are new to Yaoundé. How long have you been in Cameroon?” 
“This time only a couple of weeks, but I was born here.” 
The mother passed a bowl in the direction of her daughter. “How interesting. Were your parents military? Diplomats?” 
“Missionaries,” Munroe replied, and shrugged. “It’s been interesting coming back. It’s amazing how little changes over time, at least according to what I remember.” 
Then the colonel: “How long do you plan to stay?” “Only another week, unfortunately, but I’ll return eventually.”  
The truth, however obfuscated, was always the best story, least likely to be questioned and easiest to modify. 
Under the table Zemira brushed lightly against Munroe’s hand, and Munroe winked at her. So began the tightrope walk of the evening.  
Munroe had no background research to pull from, no idea of the man and his history or interests or passions,  
and so she was forced to listen for clues in the talk around the table.  
And then as each piece became a clearer part of the composite, she shifted into the character that would endear the mother, earn the father’s approval, and keep Zemira just slightly off balance.  
Munroe’s mind worked in a state of hyperawareness, of ratiocination and calculation that translated into exact responses,  
and by the time the evening was over and the colonel had offered his driver for the trip back to the hotel, Munroe was mentally and physically exhausted.  
The results had been better than she’d hoped: lunch tomorrow at the colonel’s office to view his collection of model military aircraft. 
At the hotel sleep came easy and lasted long.  
It was the healthy exhaustion of an assignment, exhaustion that brought focus to the present, which silenced the internal voices and kept her mind free of Francisco. 
The next day’s lunch turned into a partial tour of the facilities,  
and while the colonel played guide, he recounted abstract snippets and stories of daily life in the training of the elite forces.  
By the time Munroe returned to the hotel, she had seen and heard all she’d needed. 
There was nothing holding her in Yaoundé, no reason to stay.  
Good-byes weren’t obligatory, but neither was there any point to being an ass and skipping town,  
and so she called Zemira, invited her to dinner, and was sure to have her home early enough to keep the colonel happy.  
Then, unwilling to wait for the morning bus, Munroe hired a taxi, paid a round-trip fare for a one-way ride, and left Yaoundé.  
The insanity of driving the roads at night was a risk. A calculable risk. Francisco beckoned. 
It was after midnight when she arrived in Douala. She’d told Francisco that she would be back in ten days, and she had wrapped it up in six.  
She stood now on the doorstep of the apartment, key in hand, and knocked first before inserting it.  
The door opened from the inside, and Francisco stood facing her, bare-chested and barefoot, face blank, simply staring.  
Except for a table lamp that illuminated a side of the living-room sofa, the flat was dark, and it was obvious he’d been up reading. 
“Are you going to let me in?” Munroe asked. Francisco stepped aside to let her pass.  
She entered and dropped the backpack on the floor. He closed the door and turned toward her, the shock on his face replaced by neutrality. 
“If this is a problem,” she said, pointing first to her head and then to her body, “I have other clothes and a wig.”  
In response he pulled her close, held her head to his shoulder, and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. “I missed you,” he said. 
“I know,” she whispered. “Me, too.” And then, “Trouble sleeping?” 
He nodded, brought her mouth to his, and when she kissed him back, he pushed her away and held her at arm’s length.  
He unbuttoned the shirt, pulling it down over her shoulders. 
“I’m still the same person,” she said, but saw on his face that the words were unnecessary.  
He loosened the bandage that secured her chest, allowing the elastic to unfurl and drop, and forced her against the door.  
All the reserve, all the control was gone. She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him back just as forcefully.  
He grasped for her face, for her mouth, and somehow, after knocking first against the hallway door and then against the wall, brought her to the bedroom but never made it to the bed. 
Afterward as they lay on the floor, tangled in sheets that had been torn from the bed, pillows scattered beyond them,  
he said to her, “We could find a compromise, perhaps take the trawler to an island, someplace where we could live and forget the world.” 
She smiled, rolled over, and then straddled him.  
She had no words for this: to care, to want, to fear, to hurt in the knowledge that for his sake and hers there would necessarily be a good-bye.  
She leaned forward, placed a kiss on his forehead, his chin, his mouth, and then, saying nothing, lay beside him, head on his shoulder. 
The next morning Munroe knew it was late before she’d opened her eyes, and when she did, Francisco was beside her, staring.  
She smiled and whispered, “How long have you been watching me sleep?” 
“An eternity and a heartbeat,” he said, and then traced his fingers along her forehead and down her jawline.  
“Promise me that you’ll never walk away without warning. I can bear it if you promise me just that.” “I promise,” she whispered. 
No pain of captivity came with the words, and she smiled and closed her eyes. 
IT WAS FOUR days later at Douala’s international airport that Munroe stood in a pilot’s uniform on the tarmac near the Jetway, waiting for the Air France flight to taxi to the terminal.  
The A340 had landed minutes earlier and was now a mark in the distance, growing larger by the second.  
Not far from where she stood, baggage handlers and ground crew prepared for the disembarkation,  
and they paid little attention to her or to the white van that passed as an ambulance idling nearby.  
Such was the simplicity of uniforms: No one looked, especially in a place like this where an extra ten euros were all the identification a person needed. 
Bradford was bringing with him two trunks courtesy of Logan.  
They would be filled primarily with junk that would pass for what a typical traveler would pack,  
and if Munroe was lucky and Logan had been kind, some of it would be in her size and style.  
Buried among the superfluous would be communications equipment, uniforms, video equipment, GPS systems,  
and a mobile satellite phone high-tech and expensive enough to catch a signal from the remoteness of the equatorial jungle.  
The trunks would have been specifically tagged, and Munroe had taken great pains to be sure that Beyard knew what he was looking for. 
Once the matériel was inside the country, they would be fully equipped for the run to Mongomo,  
and these were items that they couldn’t afford to have pass through Cameroonian customs, not even a cursory check by a bribed official.  
The ambulance would make sure the goods were safely escorted into the country, and Bradford’s unconscious body would help complete the picture. 
The A340 turned toward the gate. Munroe waited to see if the machine would position for the passengers to disembark at the Jetway or, as was typical, via a mobile staircase.  
The plane continued to the terminal, and the Jetway began to scroll, so she headed up the stairs.  
According to plan, the trunks would be loaded into the ambulance by the time she returned with Bradford. 
Munroe stripped off the pilot bars that had done their job through a perfunctory security check, tucked them into a pocket, and stood waiting beside the door hatch with a wheelchair.  
She greeted passengers as they disembarked, and if the airline personnel felt she was out of place, they said nothing.  
Munroe spotted Bradford before he stepped off the plane, and his eyes went from hers to the wheelchair and back again, the look on his face saying, I can’t believe you’re doing this. 
She stepped beside him and said, “If you would, Mr. Bradford, it’s for your own well-being.” 
He sat, and before Munroe began to wheel him away, she handed him a small bottle of orange juice.  
“We’re taking you out in an ambulance,” she whispered over his shoulder. “So be a good little boy and take your medicine.” 
“I’ll go along with the ruse, but there’s no way I’m taking this,” he said. 
“You’ll do it or I use a hypodermic.” She smiled, not at him but for the benefit of those who might be watching.  
“You fucked up in coming back, Miles. Deal with it. You want to be here, you play it my way.”  
She took the bottle of orange juice from him, unscrewed the cap, and handed it back. “Drink up.” 
His expression was a mixture of anger and helplessness.  
After watching him tilt the contents of the bottle into his mouth, Munroe grinned and wheeled him down the Jetway.