The jet touches down on a narrow strip of black tarmac somewhere in Cape Verde just as the sky starts bruising purple with dawn, no terminal, no customs, just a low concrete building, a single floodlight, and a battered black Jeep waiting with the engine running.Mara unbuckles first, grabs the small duffel we packed in a hurry before takeoff fake passports, cash, the pistol still warm from the hangar shootout, she looks at me, eyes steady despite the shadows under them.“Last chance to change your mind,” she says quietly.I stand, legs still shaky from the altitude and everything else. “I changed my mind the second you walked back into my apartment.”She nods once, no smile. Just relief.We descend the stairs into humid night air that smells of salt and diesel, the pilot doesn’t speak just hands Mara a folded paper, tips his cap, and disappears back inside the cabin, the engines wind down behind us as we walk to the Jeep.The driver is a woman short, wiry, mid-fifties, scar running f
Read more