I was tired and cranky.
Jayda Cruz, we must ask you a question before you and Zander enter that sacred space where we are not allowed.
“For heaven’s sake! Can’t it wait?”
No, Jayda Cruz.
Zander and I sighed in unison.
“Make it quick,” Zander growled.
“Right. What is it, Nano?”
Jayda Cruz, as we explained earlier, we are protecting your last viable ovum. Unfortunately, we cannot do so much longer. Despite our best efforts, it is degrading. Do you wish us to release the egg now? We cannot vouch for its viability much longer, but the statistical odds of impregnation tonight are quite high.
Zander’s head bounced off his pillow as he sat up. “What?”
“Crud. Um, I guess I haven’t had the right moment to tell you.”
“Tell me what, exactly?”
The nanomites filled in the details for me. Jayda Cruz had six remaining eggs that we were safeguarding; however, when she was shot in the abdomen, the round destroyed the ovary containing those eggs. We were able to save and cocoon one egg, which must be used soon, before its viability expires.
“Wait. You’re saying we could have a baby?”
The likelihood is high, Zander Cruz, if the ovum is released tonight.
Zander wiped his face with his hand. “Way to drop the hammer, Nano. Sheesh. No pressure here, right?”
He put his cheek back on his pillow so that we were again nose to nose and eye to eye. “Jay? I confess that I’m more than a little dumbfounded . . . but what do you think? Is this our chance to grow our family? Do you want to make a baby?”
“Yes! Of course, I-I do, but . . .”
“But?”
“Winnie Delancey. What she did to Macy and Darius.”
Zander raised himself up on one elbow. “No. No way. Never!”
“Yeah, that’s how I feel, too. I want a baby, but Winnie Delancey wants the nanomites. I doubt that she can give them up—not now that she’s figured out how to ‘extract’ them from us. She’ll find a place to hide and regroup—and then she’ll look for another opportunity to trap us and take them. Zander, I don’t want to leave our child an orphan. More than that, I don’t ever want our child used as bait.”
I shook my head. “We can’t, Zander. We can’t bring a child into the world knowing we would be putting him or her in harm’s way.”
Zander slowly nodded. “I understand.”
Jayda Cruz and Zander Cruz. Jesus has made it our responsibility to keep you and your child safe. You need not fear Winnie Delancey; the woman will not seek for you again.
Zander and I shared a look, one of disquiet.
“Nano,” Zander asked, “what have you done?”
We have taken appropriate steps to protect you and your family, Zander Cruz.
I felt sick. “But . . . we thought you learned your lesson with Vice President Harmon, Nano.”
We did learn, Jayda Cruz. What we have done was properly authorized.
“Authorized? By whom?”
By President Jackson. The Supreme Court ruled that the President has the authority to sanction actions—including deadly force—that protect the United States from a “clear and present danger.” The President employed such an action when he downed the jet carrying Lawrence Danforth. During that crisis, he told us that any individuals who had knowledge of us and attempted to weaponize us against America represented such a “clear and present danger.” He authorized and directed us to use any means necessary to remove such a danger.
In the Situation Room—after he’d given the order to shoot down Danforth’s plane—the President had remained seated, his head bowed. The nanomites had whispered my words into the President’s ear . . . and the President, it seems, had whispered his instructions to them.
As you yourself said, Jayda Cruz, anyone who would harm a child is a monster who needs to be destroyed. Under President Jackson’s order, we have taken steps to remove Winnie Delancey as a threat to the President, to national security, and to you and your family.
Zander and I laid there for a while, shocked into silence. I was too tired, too weary to tussle with another problem or moral dilemma.
I was drifting away when Zander breathed into my ear, “So. . . what do you think, Jay? Want to give Emilio a little brother or sister?”
His breath tickled the little hairs on my skin and woke me up. “Mmm hmm. That would be wonderful—but I want to go home, Zander. Home to Albuquerque.”
“Okay by me; our job here is done. So, is that a ‘yes’ to making a baby?”
“Yes, Zander. I want to make a baby. Let’s give Emilio a little brother or sister.”
“You heard her, Nano.”
We did.
Lights out, Jayda and Zander Cruz.
Postscript
“IT’S BEEN NINE HOURS! Don’t you know anything?”
“We know the jet she chartered out of D.C. landed fifteen minutes after takeoff out of Reagan, Agent Randolph—before our scrambled jets could get a lock on her.”
“Where could she go in fifteen minutes?”
“To a hick airport in another state where she ditched her jet for a puddle jumper.”
“Weren’t you able to track her?”
“Not fast enough. She hopscotched from D.C. to West Virginia, to Tennessee, to Alabama, to southern Georgia, to southern Florida, always ahead of us, flying illegally without flight plans or transponders, staying low, beneath radar. We are certain she landed in Cuba seventy-five minutes ago.”
“Cuba. Seventy-five minutes ago.”
“An asset in place put eyes on her, but we don’t believe she stayed long. If her layover was like the others, she had a plane on the runway, fueled and ready to go as soon as she touched down, likely a jet. But to get that kind of service from Cuba? The woman has to have both money and some serious ‘friends’ in high places.”
“Do we have her next destination?”
“Not yet, but wherever it is, we doubt it’s her final stop. She will change planes again to make tracing her next to impossible.”
WINNIE DELANCEY TOOK her first easy breath since the harrowing flight from D.C. Her faithful (and well compensated) bodyguards were seated at the front of the chartered Learjet 35A as they descended into Mexico City. They would deplane and spend the night in the city. The following day, her men would charter an innocuous plane for the next leg of their journey. Their destination tomorrow would be San Jose, Costa Rica, and after that, on to Caracas, Venezuela—although they were not likely to stay long.
Winnie used her knuckles to knead at the ache behind her eyes. Ah, Simon, my love. What will I do now? We came so close to destroying America, so close to bringing to its knees the nation that has driven so many nations into the dust. Was it all for nothing?
It was not that she lacked resources. No. But, for the first time in her life, she lacked purpose.
I am sixty-seven years old, and in good health. We were on the cusp of attaining our dreams, and I had so much to look forward to! And now? Now what will I do?
If only I’d had one day longer to secure the nanomites, to transfer them to me . . . what personal power I would wield! With the nanomites, I could find another way to achieve our dream.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are on our final approach to Mexico City.”
Minutes later, the bump of wheels contacting the runway announced their arrival. They taxied to a private gate, and a steward unlatched and lowered the Learjet’s steps. Her men stood to escort her from the plane.
On the tarmac, one of them forged ahead to secure a taxi. The other stayed with Winnie and cleared a path for her through the teeming terminal.
Within an hour, her guards had checked them into a modest hotel suite under false passports. She had them order room service for herself and for them. After they had eaten, her men would go out to locate a plane for tomorrow’s flight.
Winnie had the waiter take her food to her room. She lock
ed the door and stayed there until morning.
SHE AROSE AFTER A RESTLESS night. Her guards assured her that they had chartered a luxury Cessna Caravan turboprop plane that seated 10, and that it was prepared to leave as soon as they returned to the airport.
“It is a comfortable plane with nice amenities. They will provide breakfast if you like,” one of them told her.
“Let us go, then.”
They returned to the airport, cleared the security screening, and were ushered to their gate by their flight attendant, a striking, middle-aged brunette. “This way, please,” she murmured, leading them through the gate and up the short flight of steps.
Winnie gave a cursory inspection to the plane’s lavish upholstery and carpets as she stepped through the roll-up door. She was tired and irritable, aware that her clean change of clothes should have been pressed. She retired to the back of the plane where she could be alone and left her men to oversee the details. While she waited for the plane to taxi and takeoff, she browsed international news on her phone.
The headlines were only about the newly confirmed Vice President’s sudden stroke and death and how the Secret Service had rushed the President to Walter Reed—as a precaution only.
That should have been you, Robert Jackson, she ground out under her breath. You were to die, not Simon. At this moment, Simon should be President—and after him, me!
Apparently, the President was keeping Winnie Delancey’s fugitive status from the media, for there was not a breath of it anywhere. How long could that last? The condolences would pour in—and with no one to receive them and no public sightings of the grieving widow to be had, the media would soon question where she was.
Her bodyguards entered the plane and the flight attendant closed and sealed the door. As the plane ran down the runway and lifted, Winnie laid her head back.
I must rest so that my mind is clear when we reach Costa Rica.
SHE MUST HAVE SLEPT. As she roused herself, she checked her phone. Two hours of sleep, but two hours would sustain her for a while.
She lifted the window shade and stared below. The sun shone from behind the starboard wing, casting a glow on the water below.
It has been years since I have been to Costa Rica or Venezuela. I wonder how changed they are.
Winnie blinked. The morning sun was behind them to the east, but the plane should have been flying south—with the sun on their port side. And the water below them? It stretched into the horizon, but they should be flying over land.
She called aloud, “Are we off course?”
The flight attendant stood, and Winnie shouted to her. “Are we going the wrong direction?”
The attendant walked toward Winnie, her steps slow, languorous, sensual. A far cry from deferential and servile.
Winnie felt the need to meet this woman on her feet. She stood and clutched the arm of her seat. “We are going the wrong way. Please inform the pilot and alter course.”
The attendant’s English was clear, but her diction and syntax spoke of Mexican gentility and of a pricey education. “I am afraid, Señora Delancey, that we have had a change of itinerary.”
Winnie’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we? What is the water below us?”
“We are, at present, quite close to my home, Culiacán, which is not far from the Pacific Ocean.”
Culiacán? The bastion of drug cartels.
“Michael! Tobias!”
Winnie’s guards remained in their seats. They stared at their feet.
They have sold me out.
Winnie studied the attendant. “Apparently, someone has offered you a great deal of money for me. Whatever they are paying you, I can pay you more.”
The woman spread her hands. “It is not about money, señora; it is about honor.”
“Honor?”
“Sí. A favor, a debt repaid.”
Winnie steeled herself, commanded her body not to panic. She told herself to breathe, to look for the opening she needed, but her fatigue made her a bit unsteady on her feet. She grasped the seat in front of her.
“If it is not about money, perhaps you are interested in what money cannot always buy. I have a great many secrets, and I am certain that in your line of . . . business, secrets may be traded for influence or for power.”
The woman lifted her chin and appeared interested. “Sí, I enjoy power. What kind of secrets might you have that could acquire for me more power?”
Winnie smiled as with a fellow conspirator. “A technological breakthrough, my dear, a scientific advance with limitless potential. A technology that can actually . . . render a woman invisible. Think of the possibilities.”
“Invisible? Truly?” The woman’s lush lips parted; her eyes glowed. She closed the gap between them and reached out a hand to Winnie’s arm to steady her.
Yes. I have her, Winnie congratulated herself.
Something pricked Winnie’s arm, and the attendant’s lips curved with mocking humor. “Tell me, Señora Delancey, does such an invisible woman also call the fire of the gods into her hands? Does she gather the lightning to herself and cast it upon her enemies? Can she create the storm around her and bring down the wrath of the heavens?”
Winnie’s mouth opened and closed in astonished dismay.
“It grieves me to tell you this, señora, but I have already met such a woman. I must say, too, that I do not wish to ever meet her again.”
“Bu—” Winnie stopped. The word seemed to stick in her throat.
“May I help you, señora? You are weak, no? Come. Let me assist you to the front of the plane.”
Winnie let the attendant lead her toward the front of the plane—not that she could have resisted. She found that her feet and hands would not respond well to her commands.
The copilot emerged from the cockpit, and the attendant addressed Winnie’s bodyguards, then the copilot.
“Gentlemen, please ensure that your seatbelts are secure. Joachim, the altitude, por favor?”
“One thousand feet, Señora Duvall.”
“Ah. I will need your assistance.”
Winnie tried to speak; nothing but faint fits of air passed her lips.
“A neuromuscular blocking agent,” the attendant purred. “Quite painless, I’m told, and it passes in a few hours.”
She and the man assisting her helped each other don harnesses that were fixed to the bulkhead. Winnie grunted but could not move. Neither of her bodyguards would look at her. One of them shook and trembled.
The attendant and copilot unlatched the roll-up door and, in a single, fluid movement, rolled it up and across the inside of the plane’s ceiling. The plane’s slipstream tugged and pulled at them, but they were safely harnessed to the bulkhead.
Winnie was not. She stared out the gaping hole, seeing her death before her, hearing Jayda Cruz’s words above the roar of the wind.
On the day of your death, you will come face to face with God Almighty. If you stand before the Lord without Jesus, you will face his righteous justice. I’m warning you now to confess your sins and turn to Jesus—before it is too late for you.
“Uahhh . . . Ahhhww . . .”
The attendant murmured, “Our family loves its excitement as well as its luxury. Skydiving is a favorite pastime.”
She and the copilot grasped Winnie’s arms and positioned her in the threshold.
The woman said, “I will not say vaya con Dios, señora. He is, after all, not likely to go with you, although you may meet him at the end of your passage.”
Winnie could not move a muscle even as she tumbled, end over end, toward the blue water stretching up to meet her.
ESPERANZA DUVALL STUDIED—FOR at least the fifteenth time—the cryptic text she’d received late the previous afternoon. She’d been obliged to move quickly, to have her people fuel one of her family’s planes and fly it from Culiacán to Mexico City, and then locate and reach out to the woman’s bodyguards.
The way to an agreement, smoothed by four guns pointed at their
heads, had been quick and satisfactory. She had given them each one hundred thousand dollars in cash and the promise of their freedom at the end. Faced with certain death now or the uncertain hope that she would honor her word later, the guards had chosen the latter. Esperanza’s men had watched their hotel all night to ensure that their cooperation did not falter.
It had not been a bad bargain, Esperanza admitted. She had recouped more cash from Winnie Delancey’s bag than what she had expended to complete her task. Above all that, she had satisfied a debt of “honor.”
Esperanza Duvall
We gave you Arnaldo Soto
His kidneys saved your uncle’s life
We wish a favor in return
A monster who cannot be allowed to live
Mexico City 10 pm
A photo of Winnie Delancey, the wife of the newly deceased U.S. Vice President, was attached to the text—as was a photo of a Learjet’s tail number.
Esperanza, remembering her encounter with the woman who threw fire and lightning from her fingers and who launched a line of vehicles into a deadly rain of burning scrap metal and glass, shivered. She touched “reply” and typed a short sentence: El favor ha sido devuelto.
The favor has been returned.
She pressed “send” and glanced a last time at her phone before pulling the sim card and snapping it in two.
Post-Postscript
JAYDA CRUZ. IT IS TIME to get up.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
“Huh? No. No, it’s not. I don’t have a job anymore, Nano, and I’m officially on vacation, so shut it.”
Jayda Cruz, as Hebrews 6:12 tells us, “We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised.”
“Gah! Leave me alone.” I pulled the pillow over my head—which did not help. At all.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
Jayda Cruz. It is time to get up.
Jayda Cruz—
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