“Let’s go.”

Chris followed Michael between the palms, staying low and stepping quietly. His brother moved like a panther. He crouched next to the second tent and looked in the open flap. “Tent” was a misnomer. It was several tarps strung together between two trees. Large openings allowed the coastal breezes to flow through. Michael looked back at him and nodded, his eyes serious. He held up one finger.

It’s Kruger and he’s alone.

Michael started to enter the tent, but Chris grabbed his shoulder. He shook his head and pointed at himself. His brother held his gaze for a long moment and then stepped back. Chris had spent decades looking over his shoulder, expecting to see the face of his torturer, wondering when the Ghostman would find him again. Chris might have been locked up for two years, but he had spent even more years in a mental and emotional prison because he never felt safe. Ever. Chris could eliminate that life of uncertainty for the women.

Chris took a deep breath, studied the inside of the tent, and stepped inside. The smell of unwashed male slapped him in the face. Even the salty breeze couldn’t clear the sweaty odors from the blankets. He crept closer, his weapon trained on the head resting on the small pillow, and he recognized the profile. The man was leaner now, his beard growing out and his hair in need of a trim. The smell of alcohol mixed with the other odors of the tent. Judging by the empty glass bottles off to one side, Kruger drank a lot. And often.

Here was the source of Gianna’s, Violet’s, and Jamie’s nightmares.

He thunked his weapon on the man’s skull and stepped back. Kruger lunged up from the ground and froze as he saw the men and the weapons trained on his face. He stared at Chris and muttered something in a language Chris didn’t recognize. Alcohol fumes and bad breath drifted from his mouth.

“Yes, he did survive,” answered Michael.

In the dim light, Chris realized the man had lost more weight than he’d originally guessed. Life on the run was a thorough diet. He hoped Kruger had been scared shitless the whole time.

“I knew someone was following me,” muttered Kruger. “Are you the police?” he asked, looking at Michael.

Michael’s lips twisted. “I’m not.”

Kruger looked from Michael to Chris and then scooted back a few inches. “What do you want? I can get you money.”

“No, you can’t. Daddy’s deep pockets have dried up, and I’m sure you’re very aware of that fact,” said Chris. “What we want can’t be bought. We want the women in our lives to be able to sleep at night and not worry that someone is going to burn their house down around them or shoot them in the stomach.”

Kruger’s white teeth flashed. “I read she survived. She is a hot one, your woman.”

Chris’s arm shot out and whipped his weapon across the man’s face. Blood dripped from his nose. Kruger wiped it with the back of his hand and eyed the blood smear.

“You Americans think you’re all John Wayne,” sneered Kruger. “You don’t know what real power feels like.”

“I have your fucking puny life in the palm of my hand,” said Chris, lining up his weapon with Kruger’s right eye. “No one will care if I kill you right now. The United States wants you for murders of police officers. Do you know what we do to cop killers back home? South Africa wants you for some of the sickest crimes I’ve ever heard of. You should be happy that I’m going to save you from that hell.”

Kruger’s bravado faded at Chris’s words. “I still have friends with money. I can pay you well.”

“They can’t be very good friends if they let you sleep in this filth,” answered Chris. “I’ve got no reason to let you walk out of this tent. No reason at all.”

Kruger lunged for the tent flap, and Chris leaped on the stinking man’s back, clubbing him in the head with the butt of his gun and forcing him to the ground. Kruger fought to throw off his weight as Michael flung himself onto the backs of Kruger’s legs. Michael grabbed one of the man’s arms and wrenched it behind his back. Chris heard the click of handcuffs and transferred his weight to the man’s shoulders. Kruger swore with foreign words as Michael wrestled with the cuffs.

A second click.

Chris rolled off his back while Michael kept his weight on the man’s legs. Chris crawled to the tent flap, pushed it aside, and looked out at the four waiting men. “He’s all yours.” The men were dressed in cheap tourist shirts, but Chris knew they wore body armor underneath. They were impatient to take their prisoner back to South Africa.

Two of the men ducked inside and Kruger shouted in anger at the sight of the newcomers.

Michael crawled out of the tent. “It fucking stinks in there.”

The two remaining men shook hands with Michael and Chris. “Thank you,” said one.

“No, thank you,” answered Chris.

“Let’s go home,” said Michael.

“Home,” echoed Chris with an eager smile.

It’s over.

Gianna stood in the waiting area of the tiny regional airport, shifting from foot to foot, watching out the window. Heavy rain had fallen for the last few hours, delaying several flights. Behind her Brian patiently explained the nuances of his video game to Violet as they sat with their heads together, peering at his small screen. Violet’s interest was genuine, and Gianna’s heart warmed at how the kids had taken to each other.

The first meeting between the three of them had been stiff and awkward, with Chris uncertain how to introduce Gianna and Violet to his son. Brian had looked from one woman to the other, a puzzled look on his face as he listened to his father fumble through an explanation of a cabin fire and snowstorm.