Author's Note: My apologies for the delay in updating. Just as I was about to start writing this chapter, Hurricane Michael roared through and flattened Panama City, Florida, where I have stashed Letty and Christian. I debated ignoring it, placing this story in the past, but then decided that 1) this was more exciting, and 2) it solved a future plot hole. So, herewith is a hurricane as a guest star – albeit only off camera (much like the storm at the Holiday Inn Express).

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A few weeks later, the newly-minted Diego Javier Perez made his way off the airplane and at last back onto US soil, shifting his single carry-on bag onto his shoulder once away from the gate. He was nowhere near his original destination of Los Angeles. His flight from Quito into Panama had been delayed, and then his continuation flight to LA canceled due to mechanical difficulties. Rather than get upset however, he had viewed it as a sign, and got himself onto the standby lists for the next dozen flights to anywhere in the US. He'd gotten lucky on the third try, and was now moving through Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans, Louisiana.

There was a pretty good chance, he told himself, that Letty had drifted back to her old stomping grounds in the Southeast after his "death". Maybe Fate was pointing him in that direction, as well.

On his way out through the terminal after showing his brand new passport to the immigration control officer (who barely glanced at it, almost disappointing Javier), he happened to glance through the window of one of the many stores lining the hall, and grinned as he spied bags of gummi bears. Why not? He hadn't found a brand he liked in Ecuador. Detouring into the shop, he picked up several bags, wincing at their price and putting back all but two, then pulled an orange soda out of the cooler. He was standing in line at the register when he saw it.

Glancing over at the many paperbacks on offer, her name jumped out at him from several identical book spines: "Letty". He leaned over and pulled one out, looking at the front cover with growing astonishment. "The Misadventures of Letty Lockhart", by Christian Woodhill. WOODHILL? Flipping the book over to the back, he nearly shouted aloud with glee as the familiar face of Letty's friend grinned back at him from the Author's Photograph. For all those months, he had never tried to search for the man, because he could remember neither his last name, nor the city he had been working in as a parole officer.

"Sir? Are you ready to check out?" The cashier was trying to get his attention.

"Yeah! Sorry." Javier placed the book on the counter alongside candy and soda, and gave the cashier a grin. "I know that guy," he offered an explanation for his reaction, getting a friendly smile in return.

Out of the shop, he stepped across the concourse to an airport bar so he could use their wifi, grabbed a seat with his back to a wall and ordered a beer, then pulled out the lightweight laptop he'd brought with him. He quickly made his way onto the dark web, and contacted KronosKai, the tracer who had actually been apologetic about his inability to find Letty – even refunding a part of Javier's deposit, unlike the other guy. Christian Woodhill. Author. Current address and phone number, as soon as you can, please.

After finishing the beer, Javier walked out into the sunshine and hailed a taxi, asking the man to take him to any place he knew of with a lot of used car lots – the "buy here, pay here" shady kind of places. No problem, was the reply, and within fifteen minutes, Javier was cruising on foot through a series of lots, dodging salesmen until he found what he wanted: not too old, not too new, price low enough to be suspicious. He got the salesman to knock a few hundred off by promising cash, then another few hundred by threatening to check the VIN to see if it was stolen, and for the first time in his life, actually purchased a vehicle. He just hoped it wouldn't die on him before he was finished with it.

Then he drove out of town and across Lake Ponchartrain to Interstate 12, found a cheap hotel and got a room, and settled in with the book.

He stayed up all night reading. There were no hints in the collection of short stories of Letty's current whereabouts – all of them seemed to be from years past, before they had met. It ended with the story Christian had read aloud to them on the Sprinter; the very first one he had written – and ended the same way, with the fictional Letty signing up for classes, strongly suggesting an end to her life of crime. Javier wondered absently if that was some sort of message in itself.

Flipping open the laptop in the morning before going downstairs for breakfast, he grinned. KronosKai had sent a message.

Found him. Here's his home address in Panama City Beach, Florida. No cell phone yet; I'm working on it. But hey – I finally found something in the SSA database on the other target you asked for – she's listed as having the same home address as Woodhill!

When he reached that last sentence, Javier sat down, hard. After all these months, finally, a solid sign of Letty. He'd become half convinced that she had died, either by her own hand or by an accident. He started to breath again.

Forgetting breakfast, he stuffed everything back into his bag, and went to check out. The television blaring in the lobby caught his attention on his way through, however, by the announcer saying the name of his destination. He stopped dead and stared at the TV, hardly believing his ears.

A major hurricane was churning up the Gulf, heading directly towards Panama City – and Letty.

He practically ran to his car, jumped in, and screeched to the highway, heading east, hoping against hope that he could beat the storm.