“I have been shot,” Izabel begins. “I’ve had my throat cut open. I have been…” She stops, appears to be contemplating. “I don’t need to explain anything to any of you,” she says at last. “I’m going to Mexico, and I’m going to be the one who smokes the real Vonnegut out of that hole he’s been hiding in all these years. I know what I’m getting myself into; I know what not only could happen to me while I’m there, but what will happen to me while I’m there. I’m prepared for it—all of it. And if any of you have any objections, you can, quite frankly, shove them up your ass.”

The room remains stiffly silent for several long seconds.

“Victor!” Niklas breaks that silence; his hand juts out, pointing at Izabel. “Tell her she’s not going.”

“Again,” Gustavsson says, “I agree with Niklas. Mexico is the last place Izabel should ever go alone. What happened to the plan with Nora going along?”

“I-I care about you, Izabel,” Woodard speaks up, “and that’s why I agree w-with Niklas and Fredrik.”

The entire time, while everyone else is going back and forth about all the reasons why Izabel should not go, she never once takes her eyes from mine. In this moment, all I see is her, all that I hear are her thoughts conveyed through that steadfast look in her eyes, and the last conversation we had the night I naïvely asked her to marry me.

Finally, I look up, breaking our gaze, and I announce amid the carrying voices, “Izabel will go to Mexico,” and the same voices cease to express another word. “She is right—she is the best candidate for the job. She will go on her own terms, make all of the decisions, and if anyone intervenes in any way whatsoever, the repercussions will be…unfortunate.”

Gustavsson appears to think on it a moment, and then nods, gracefully as always stepping out of the way of the situation.

Woodard is too much of a coward to step out of his comfort zone surrounded by his technology to ever consider setting one foot out in the field—he would never interfere.

Niklas looks as though he would very much like to cave my nose into the back of my skull. He clenches both of his fists, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieves a pack of cigarettes. After putting a cigarette between his lips and pocketing the pack, he lights up. After a long drag, smoke swirling around his head when he pulls the cigarette from his mouth, he looks at no one in particular and says with the shrug of his shoulders, “Whatever. I’m outta here. Call me when you fuckers have your shit together,” and then he exits the room, a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake.

Sending Izabel to Mexico is the last thing I want, but if I try to stand in her way like I have in the past, I know I will never see her again. I have to let her do this. And I have to let her do it her way.

Besides, the truth is that I have absolutely no doubts about her ability to pull off this mission. She is the best candidate for the job, not only because of her experience, but because of her skill. Izabel is more than capable of doing it, and every part of me tells me so. She has eluded death enough that, between the two of us, I believe that she is the immortal one. Yes. She will go back to Mexico, and she will suffer unimaginable trials, but she will live. Of this I have every confidence.

But when it came to the Mexico mission, it never was the possibility of death that I agonized over. It was everything else that, like Izabel said, not only could happen to her, but will happen to her, that put the fear into my heart. Will I be able to look at Izabel the same way I look at her now after she returns? Will her being violated by other men, touched, kissed, even possibly raped, change the way I feel about her, especially with the knowledge of her going into this knowing the risks and the consequences? Yes. And no. Yes, I will be able to look at her the same. And no, whatever happens to her will not change the way I feel about her. I love her too much.

“Izabel,” Gustavsson says with disappointment, “even if you manage to live through this, what happens when someone realizes who you are?” He turns to me now. “From what I understand, you think Vonnegut was one of the wealthy men who purchased girls from Javier Ruiz?”

“That’s a good point,” Woodard says. “If the bounty on Izabel’s head is as much as your sister told you, l-logic tells us that a lot of people know w-what she looks like.”

“No,” Izabel answers, “that’s not necessarily the case where I’m going. It’s not like there’ll be Wanted posters nailed to light poles on every city block in this place. And besides, back to Mexico, back into the belly of the same beast I escaped from, is the last place anyone, whether they’re looking for me or not, would ever expect to find me.”

I step forward. “To answer your question,” I say to Gustavsson, “yes, we have reason to believe that the real Vonnegut was one of those wealthy men that Izabel saw when she was Javier’s prisoner.”

“So that raises a lot of questions,” Gustavsson says, “as to just how much business Vonnegut did with the Ruiz Family.”

I nod. “It does indeed.”

“If it’s true,” Izabel reminds us. “We’re taking what Nora told us on good faith—and I believe her—but whether she was telling the truth or not, in the end, the information could be bad. Only way to know for sure is to go and find out. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

No one says anything for a moment.

“So then this is it,” Gustavsson speaks up; he opens his hands to the room. “We leave this building today, all heading in different directions—it feels so…final.”

“It is temporary,” I correct him.

“Yes,” Izabel says, and glances briefly at me. “And when this is all over, everything will be different.” She looks at me again, for longer this time. “Vonnegut will be dead; The Order will be under Victor’s control; we’ll be able to not only work freely and out in the open, per se, but our very lives will change in unimaginable ways. Freedom. Wealth. Opportunities.” She walks toward me, and she stops right in front of me, tilts her head slightly to one side. “And power,” she says, locking eyes with me, her way of telling me that, of all things, power is what I crave.

I am not sure how I feel about that. Is that what Izabel believes, that I am a man who longs for power? Is that what she thinks of me?

Perhaps she is r—

“Victor?” I hear Gustavsson call, and I blink back into focus. “Is this it then? Is this where we part ways and ride off into the sunset?”

For a second, I feel like I had been daydreaming longer than I thought, but finally I manage a nod. “Yes,” I say. “This is it. For now.”

Gustavsson steps up and offers his hand to me.

I accept it.

“If you need me,” he says, “I’m a call away.”

“Good,” I acknowledge. “The same goes for you, my friend.”

Gustavsson turns to Izabel. He looks at her fondly. And then he takes her into another hug, in which she returns.

“Izabel—”

“No goodbyes,” she interrupts. “And none of that ritualistic ‘be careful’ stuff, either. I’m going to be fine. And I’m coming back.”

He seems to think on her words for a moment, and then he nods.

“If you get into any trouble—”

She presses her hand to his chest, stopping him.

“Go catch your serial killer, Fredrik,” she says, and he smiles.

Gustavsson leaves, and after Woodard’s awkward, but endearing goodbyes, he leaves shortly afterward.

And now it is just the two of us, Izabel and myself, alone in the building we once called headquarters. And, in many ways, home.

Izabel reaches out and touches the side of my stubbly face with her fingertips; she gazes up at me. I want to take her into my arms and never let her go. I feel like I have been deprived of something very important, a moment between us that is long overdue and aching to be felt—reuniting for the first time with the one I love and almost lost. The last time I really held her in my arms was when she and I were in that cage together. Not once since her release from the hospital has she allowed me that important moment. And I feel that even now, standing here alone with her, just days before she sets out for Mexico, I will still be deprived of it.