Casper says, “Thank you, jefe. But we lost so much…several of our workers, sensitive communications equipment, and too many questions being raised about the resort and its financing.”

Pelayo leans over, gently pats Casper’s closest leg. “Minor issues, that is all. All great firms, all great concerns like ours, can afford to suffer the occasional setback. And with you at my side, well, you did well, in shooting that little girl.”

Casper stays quiet, folds up the newspaper, carefully puts it at his side.

Pelayo says, “Tomorrow, a special project, just for you.”

“Yes?”

“Track down the Cornwalls, find out where they are, kill them both. Use whatever resources you need, but don’t take too much time. I want that matter settled.”

“All right.”

“Save their heads,” Pelayo says with relish, remembering his earlier plan for that young Denise Cornwall. “Freeze them. We will send them to their respective superiors.”

“As you wish, jefe.”

Pelayo looks out again, sees the wide and long pavement of the runway.

He loves his life.

CHAPTER 93

CHAPTER 93

AT A remote lake in central Maine, Tom Cornwall is sitting in an old gray Adirondack chair, watching his family at play. Denise and Amy are swimming and splashing each other, squealing and laughing. There’s a small dock with a pontoon boat tied up to it, and a comfortable cottage that has a wonderful view of the lake and the nearby mountains.

There are other residents on the lake, who wave at them as they take the pontoon boat out, or as they walk side by side along the dirt roads linking the cottages on this rural shore.

His wrist itches. He gently traces his fingers over the bandages, wondering how his burnt skin is healing, wondering how the sickness inside of him is healing as well.

The past days have been a blur of packing, flying, driving, and getting used to this slice of country paradise, and along the way, apologies, apologies, apologies.

He apologized to Amy the day he and Denise were rescued at Beachside, and the day after that, and the day after that.

Each time Amy has given him a slim smile, and said, “That’s nice, Tom. We’ll talk later.”

He wonders when and how later will come.

And if the sickness inside of him will ever go away.

He looks at his fingers, tracing the bandage on his arm, the fingers that held that cutting tool, killing the young Afghan who had been ready to kill him.

One of the many surprises during these past days is feeling no regret or guilt at having done that.