The hunting lodge sat in a hollow between two peaks, a dark stone building with a slate roof and shuttered windows, invisible from the road and nearly invisible from the air. It had been built a century ago by a German naturalist who had come to Isla Verde to study the island's birds and had stayed to marry a local woman and raise a family of five children. The naturalist was long dead, and his descendants had sold the lodge to a shell company controlled by Senator Rafael Mendez's brother-in-law. Now it was a place where the senator came when he needed to disappear.
Julian Cross arrived at dusk, driving a borrowed jeep that Hector had arranged through a contact in the mountains. The road had been rough, little more than a dirt track winding through dense jungle, and the jeep's suspension had groaned with every pothole and fallen branch. His arm was throbbing, the painkillers wearing off, and he could feel the blood seeping through the bandage under his sling. But he did not stop. He could not stop. The coordinates that Arthur Vance had given him were taped to the dashboard, and the GPS on his phone told him he was less than a mile from the lodge.
He pulled over at a bend in the road and killed the engine. The jungle was silent except for the distant call of a bird and the faint rustle of wind through the leaves. He could smell wood smoke on the air, drifting down from the hollow ahead. Mendez was there. He had to be.
Julian pulled out his phone and called Elena. The signal was weak, crackling with static, but her voice came through clearly enough.
"I'm near the lodge," he said. "I can smell smoke. He's there."
"The tactical team is still an hour away. Estrada dragged his feet on the authorization. I had to threaten to go to the international press before he signed the warrant."
"An hour is too long. If Mendez hears the helicopters, he'll run. There's a ravine behind the lodge that leads down to the coast. He could be on a boat before the team even lands."
"Then what do you suggest?"
Julian looked up the road toward the hollow. The plan he had outlined to Elena in Vance's office was still intact, but it required him to walk into the lion's den alone, unarmed, with nothing but a lie and a recording device taped to his chest. He had done similar things before, in his years as a predator, but never with stakes this high. Never with a man like Mendez, who had spent twenty years ordering the deaths of anyone who threatened him.
"I'm going in," he said. "I'll tell him I'm from Vance. I'll tell him the plane is compromised and there's a boat waiting on the coast. I'll get him into a car, and I'll drive him down the mountain toward the tactical team."
"And if he doesn't believe you?"
"Then I'll improvise. I've been improvising my whole life, Elena. This is just one more performance."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Julian could hear voices in the background—Hector, probably, and Carmen Delgado, and the sound of keyboards clattering in the newsroom. He wondered if Elena was thinking about her sister, about the parking garage, about the man who had smiled when he pushed her. He wondered if she was thinking about all the reasons she had to let him die.
"Be careful," she said finally. "And Julian—thank you. For what you're doing."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when Mendez is in handcuffs."
He hung up and got out of the jeep. The road ahead was too exposed for a vehicle; Mendez would have lookouts posted, men with guns who would shoot first and ask questions later. He would have to approach on foot, through the jungle, following the smell of wood smoke.
He started walking.
The jungle was thick, the undergrowth tangled with vines and ferns that grabbed at his ankles. His wounded arm screamed with every step, and he could feel the blood soaking through the sling, warm and wet against his skin. He did not stop. He kept moving, pushing through the vegetation, his eyes fixed on the dim glow of light that was beginning to appear through the trees ahead.
The lodge emerged from the darkness like a shipwreck, its stone walls covered in moss, its windows glowing faintly with candlelight. There were no electric lights, no telephone wires, no sign that the building was occupied. But Julian could see a figure standing on the porch, a man with a rifle cradled in his arms, his face invisible in the shadows.
Julian raised his good arm and stepped into the clearing.
"I'm here to see the senator," he called out. "I have a message from Arthur Vance."
The man on the porch raised his rifle. "Stay where you are. Who are you?"
"My name is Julian Cross. I used to work for Vanguard. Vance sent me. The plane is compromised, and there's a tactical team on the way. I'm here to get the senator out before they arrive."
The man did not lower the rifle. "How do I know you're not lying?"
"Call Vance. He'll confirm it. But do it fast. The tactical team is less than an hour away."
The man disappeared into the lodge. Julian stood in the clearing, his arm throbbing, his heart pounding, the recording device pressed against his ribs. He could hear voices inside, low and urgent, and then footsteps, and then the door opened again.
Senator Rafael Mendez stepped out onto the porch.
He was a tall man, silver-haired and distinguished, with the kind of face that looked good on television. He was wearing a polo shirt and khaki trousers, the uniform of a man who spent his weekends on golf courses and his weekdays in boardrooms. But his eyes were different from the photographs. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had spent twenty years looking over his shoulder, waiting for the knock on the door.
"Julian Cross," he said. "I remember you. You were the analyst who tried to blackmail us. Vance should have had you killed."
"He tried. It didn't take." Julian stepped closer to the porch. "I'm not here to settle old scores, Senator. I'm here to get you off this island. The authorities have your plane. They have the airfield. They have the harbors. The only way out is through the ravine, and I have a boat waiting on the coast."
Mendez studied him. "Why would you help me? You have no reason to want me alive."
"Because Vance is paying me. He wants you out of the country before you can testify against him. If you're captured, you'll make a deal with the prosecutor. You'll give him everything you know in exchange for a reduced sentence. Vance doesn't want that. He wants you gone." Julian paused. "I don't care about Vance. I don't care about you. I just want the money. Twenty thousand dollars, wired to an offshore account, and I'll drive you down the mountain myself."
Mendez was silent for a long moment. Julian could see the calculation in his eyes, the same cold arithmetic he had seen in Arthur Vance's office. The senator was weighing the risk against the reward, the possibility of escape against the certainty of capture. And then, slowly, he nodded.
"All right. But if this is a trap, if you're lying to me, I will personally make sure you die slowly." He turned to the man with the rifle. "Get the car. We're leaving."
The man disappeared around the side of the lodge, and Mendez walked down the porch steps toward Julian. Up close, he looked older than his photographs, the lines on his face deeper, the silver in his hair more pronounced. He had been a powerful man once, a man who could order a woman pushed off a parking garage and never think about it again. But that power was draining away, seeping out of him like air from a punctured tire.
"You killed my sister," Julian said quietly.
Mendez frowned. "What?"
"My sister. Camila Marquez. You ordered Ochoa to push her off a parking garage. He did it, and you protected him." Julian's voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath it, a current of rage that he had been holding back for four years. "No, wait. That's not my sister. That's Elena's sister. I don't have a sister. I don't have anyone. But Elena does. And you destroyed her."
Mendez stared at him. "You're not here to help me."
"No. I'm not." Julian smiled, and for the first time in eight years, the smile reached his eyes. "I'm here to make sure you never leave this island. The tactical team is real. They'll be here in less than an hour. And when they arrive, you'll be standing right here, waiting for them. Because the car your man is getting—it's not going to start. The distributor cap is missing. I took it out while you were inside."
Mendez's face twisted with fury. He raised his hand, and for a moment Julian thought he was going to strike him. But then the senator stopped, his hand trembling in the air, and Julian saw the realization dawning in his eyes.
"The boat," Mendez said. "There is no boat."
"No. There's no boat, no plane, no escape. There's just you, and the tactical team, and the rest of your life in a prison cell."
The man with the rifle came around the side of the lodge, his face flushed with anger. "The car won't start. Someone tampered with the engine."
Mendez did not look at him. He was still looking at Julian, his eyes blazing with rage and fear and something that might have been respect.
"You've destroyed me," he said. "You and that Bureau analyst. You've destroyed everything I spent twenty years building."
"You destroyed yourself. You just didn't realize it until now."
The sound of helicopters drifted down from the sky, distant but growing louder. The tactical team was approaching, their rotors slicing through the evening air. Mendez looked up, and Julian saw the last flicker of hope die in his eyes.
"Run," Julian said. "Run into the jungle. See how far you get before they catch you. It won't be far. They have dogs. They have infrared cameras. They have the coordinates of every hiding place on this mountain. You're trapped, Senator. You've been trapped since the moment you decided to stay on this island instead of fleeing when you had the chance."
Mendez turned to the man with the rifle. "Shoot him."
The man raised his rifle, but before he could pull the trigger, a voice rang out from the trees.
"Drop your weapon! Now!"
Hector Vargas stepped out of the jungle, his own rifle raised, his face set with the cold determination of a man who had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Behind him, a dozen tactical officers in black uniforms emerged from the trees, their weapons trained on the porch.
The man with the rifle hesitated. Then he dropped his weapon and raised his hands.
Mendez looked at Julian, his face a mask of hatred. "You think this is over? It's not over. I have friends. I have lawyers. I have a dozen judges who owe me favors. I'll be out of prison before the year is over, and when I am, I will find you. I will find all of you. And I will make you pay."
"No," Julian said. "You won't."
He turned and walked away from the lodge, past the tactical officers who were swarming the porch, past Hector who was shouting orders into a radio. His arm was on fire, and the world was beginning to blur at the edges, and he could feel himself swaying with every step. But he kept walking. He walked until he reached the edge of the clearing, and then he stopped and looked back.
Senator Rafael Mendez was on his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back, his silver hair disheveled, his face pale with shock and rage. He looked like a man who had just realized that the world had passed him by, that the power he had spent a lifetime accumulating had evaporated in the space of a single evening.
Julian watched him for a moment, and then he turned and walked into the jungle.
Elena was waiting for him on the road, standing beside the borrowed jeep. She looked at his face, at the blood soaking through his sling, at the exhaustion that was etched into every line of his body.
"You did it," she said. "He's in custody."
"I did it." Julian leaned against the jeep, his legs threatening to give way. "Vance is next. The recording from his office. The evidence in the locker. It's enough to indict him. Estrada won't be able to stall this time. There's too much pressure."
"Estrada has already issued the warrant. Vance is being arrested as we speak." Elena paused. "You kept your promise. You gave me Mendez. You gave me Vance. You gave me everything."
"I gave you what I owed you. What I owed all of them." Julian looked up at the sky, at the first stars beginning to emerge in the fading light. "There's one more thing I need to do. One more promise I need to keep."
"What promise?"
"I told Vance I would confess. I told him I would stand in front of the cameras and tell the world what I did. I'm going to do it. Tomorrow morning, at the press conference. I'm going to tell them about Eleanor Vance. About Patricia Delacroix. About Marguerite Delgado and Isabella Vega and all the others. I'm going to tell them everything."
Elena studied his face. "You don't have to do that. The evidence against you is already overwhelming. You'll go to prison either way."
"I know. But I want to. I want to say their names. I want the world to know who they were. I want their families to know that someone remembers them, that someone is being held accountable for what happened to them." He looked at Elena. "I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing this for them. It's the only thing I have left to give."
Elena was silent for a moment. Then she nodded. "All right. I'll arrange it. Carmen can cover the press conference. The world will be watching."
"Good. That's what I want."
They stood together on the mountain road, the jungle rustling around them, the helicopters circling overhead. Somewhere down the mountain, Senator Rafael Mendez was being loaded into a police van, his silver hair catching the last light of the setting sun. Somewhere in the city, Arthur Vance was being led out of his corner office in handcuffs, his photograph-covered walls now the backdrop for his disgrace. And somewhere in a rehabilitation center in the mountains, Camila Marquez was sitting by a window, watching the helicopters pass overhead, and wondering if her sister had finally found the justice she had been chasing for so long.
But the game was not over yet. Julian Cross still had one secret left, one name that he had not revealed. The name of the person who had been involved in the cover-up. The name he had promised to reveal when the cameras were on and the world was watching.
And tomorrow morning, at the press conference, he was going to speak that name for the first time.
Julian leaned his head back against the jeep and closed his eyes. The pain in his arm was fading, replaced by a numbness that was spreading through his body. He thought about the photograph in Elena's bookstore, the woman on the beach, laughing, her arms open to the sky. He thought about his own sister, the letter he had thrown away, the years he had spent running from the people who had loved him.
Maybe it was not too late. Maybe there was still time to make things right.
But first, he had to face the cameras. First, he had to speak the names of the dead. And then, finally, he could rest.
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