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Hilo International Airport, Hawai‘i

The fastest private jet on the planet was the Peregrine, and Brett had flown one into Hilo.

Mac stood with Jenny and Rick on the tarmac as the pilots went through their final checks before departing for the Galápagos. Brett had promised they’d land at José Joaquín de Olmedo International Airport in just over five hours. The copilot had collected their two small duffel bags; Jenny and Rick were traveling light, hopeful that they’d be in the Galápagos for only a few hours.

Rick gave Mac a quick hug.

“Your bride happy about this little adventure?” Mac asked him.

“What do you think?”

The Peregrine’s engine fired up; it felt like another small tremor was running through the ground underneath them.

“Do not die on me while I’m gone,” Jenny said. “Because you know how much that would piss me off.”

“Well, now, we can’t have that, can we?” Mac said.

Over Jenny’s shoulder, Mac saw the copilot at the top of the airstairs.

“Dr. Kimura,” he shouted over the roar of the engines, “just about time for wheels up.”

It was unclear whether Mac or Jenny initiated their embrace, but they suddenly had their arms around each other.

“You take care of yourself,” Mac said softly into her ear.

“Don’t have your first scotch until I’m back,” she said.

Mac gently kissed the top of her head and stepped back, his hands on her shoulders. He smiled.

Jenny nodded and smiled back. “I feel the same way,” she said. She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, stepped toward him, and kissed him so quickly and lightly, it was almost as if their lips hadn’t touched.

Then Jenny Kimura turned and walked toward what she was already calling the Brett Jet. She climbed the stairs and disappeared through the door without looking back.

Mac stood at the window in the terminal and watched Brett’s fastest-in-the-world personal-jet taxi take off, the backdrop of its steep ascent the summit of Mauna Loa.

He went back to the army jeep Rivers had assigned to him exclusively. He planned to meet Rebecca and her crew back at Mauna Loa—the volcano permitting, of course—so they could finish burying the rest of her explosives. After that they would meet with Brett and the Cutlers and review the latest map for the aerial bombing.

All of that bombing would be contingent on what Jenny and Rick observed once they arrived in the Galápagos Islands, having traveled there by what would probably feel to them like the speed of sound.

It was just another way, Mac thought, of trying to beat the big clock.

He sat behind the wheel, not yet putting the key in the ignition, thinking of his goodbye with Jenny and wondering if he should have said something more to her. But then, he spent a lot of time wondering if he should be saying more to her about his feelings.

Maybe he would when he understood them better. He hoped there would be plenty of time for that.

The buzzing of his phone brought him back.

The caller ID read New York Times.

Mac wasn’t remotely surprised that the reporters had his number. Wait for it, he thought.

A minute later he heard the ping that meant he had a new voicemail message. It was the woman reporter.

“This is Imani Burgess. I hope you can return my call before Sam and I file our story so we can get a comment from you about a source who’s suggesting there’s some sort of toxic-waste dump on the island and some dead soldiers who might have been contaminated by it.”

There was a pause.

“We’re on deadline,” she said. “So the sooner you get back to us, the better. We’d really like to give you the chance to respond to what we have, especially if you know anything about the soldiers.”

Mac played the message again.

Then he pressed the Delete button, put the key in the ignition, and drove out of the parking lot.

Then he placed a call of his own, but it wasn’t to the New York Times.