Chapter Sixty-Two
Teterboro Airport
Bergen County, New Jersey
Charles Mpassi stepped out of the Cadillac Escalade.
The wind had picked up in the last ten minutes.
It was now whipping across the runway in erratic bursts that lifted the edge of his raincoat and sent it snapping behind him.
It had taken longer than expected for the Gulfstream to get its takeoff clearance.
Apparently, the controllers who oversaw one of the nearby airport’s approach and departure airspace had abruptly lost contact with several airplanes for more than ninety seconds, which had thrown a wrench into all the scheduled flights coming into or out of all the airports around the city.
Westcott was gone, and so was Mpassi’s patience with the man.
Everett Westcott, for all his intelligence and influence, was still a man shackled by romantic ideals.
He spoke of universal health care as if it was a birthright.
He believed, truly believed, that his wife’s dream for the Democratic Republic of the Congo could be achieved through diplomacy, infrastructure, and the displacement of tens of thousands of people.
And the curated death of a few hundred.
Mpassi shook his head in disgust. As if by pouring enough clean water and electricity into the veins of the DRC, his nation’s heart would start beating in rhythm like it was a Western country. It was noble. It was commendable.
But it was utterly naive.
Mpassi knew better. He had seen his country gutted from the inside.
First by warlords, then by the generals, and finally by the glossy foreign aid apparatus, which gave the country just enough to ease the world’s conscience.
Westcott didn’t understand how power truly worked in the DRC.
He thought leverage came from policy and partnerships and maybe a little blackmail. But in Kinshasa, power came from fear.
Yes, Westcott had married a Congolese woman, but that didn’t make him Congolese.
Mpassi pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed. The line clicked once before it connected.
“Is it done?” asked President Mutombo, his voice laced with anticipation.
“Not yet,” Mpassi said, glancing at the Gulfstream’s receding silhouette. “Soon. How are things on your end?”
“Everything is ready. We will see this through,” Mutombo said. “Just as I promised you a year ago.”
Mpassi smiled. He’d always liked Mutombo. Not for his charisma, which was lacking, or for his intellect, which was average at best, but because the man had learned to listen. He understood that true progress in the DRC didn’t require idealism, but required pragmatism.
And pragmatism required sacrifice.
“Are you sure you don’t need more time?” Mpassi asked more out of caution than doubt.
“I don’t need more time,” Mutombo said. “We’re ready to vote Hearts United’s initiative down.”
“Good,” he said, then ended the call.
It had taken him years of patient maneuvering to position himself as the éminence grise behind every decision.
Now, with a single vote, Westcott’s humanitarian pipeline in the DRC would collapse.
And in the chaos that would follow, the contracts would shift to consulting firms and local logistics companies owned primarily by Chinese interests, while others were shell entities under Mpassi’s control.
Westcott didn’t know it, but he had already built the infrastructure of Mpassi’s future fortune.
The hydroelectric project would still happen—part of it, anyway—but the spoils wouldn’t go toward hospitals; they’d be routed through state-run procurement firms and siphoned into the hands of Mpassi’s loyalists.
He had no shame in admitting it. He wanted it all.
The money, and the power. He’d finally get the respect he’d never been given by the Europeans, the Americans, and even by his own generals back in the days when he wore a uniform and ran protection for war criminals.
He’d played the part of the quiet operator long enough.
Now it was his turn. But first, he had to take care of one important detail.
He dialed another number, and without even a hint of hesitation, he pressed the call button.
Everett Westcott drank the last of his first single malt as the Gulfstream continued its climb through the congested airspace over New York.
He looked out the window. The city lights of Manhattan were still visible, and from this altitude, Westcott thought they looked like a circuit board.
He had always liked the view from above, because from up in the sky, the world never looked angry or broken. It looked composed. Manageable.
He pondered if he should have another drink or not. He knew he should try to sleep, and like his wife had told him many times, he slept better when he had nothing to drink.
Westcott smiled. He knew Nailah only said that because she couldn’t sleep when he snored. But this was his jet, and apart from the two pilots and the lone flight attendant, there was no one else on the plane. So, who cared if he snored? He’d have another drink.
Westcott stood and walked to the flight attendant, who was still strapped into her jump seat.
“What was it you gave me? Macallan?”
“Yes, sir. Eighteen year.”
He nodded. It wasn’t his favorite, but close enough.
“I’ll have another,” he said, handing her his crystal tumbler.
A few moments later, the flight attendant returned the tumbler to him. He thanked her, took a small sip, and headed toward the aft lavatory.
It was one of the small indulgences of owning his own plane. Nobody told him when to sit down, when to buckle up, or how many drinks were too many.
My plane. My rules.
He entered the large lavatory, set his tumbler on the counter, and unfastened his pants before lowering himself onto the cushioned seat.
He had just started his business when the plane jolted hard.
His tumbler flew from the vanity and shattered, spraying single malt across the mirror and his bare legs.
“What the hell?”
The first shake had been hard, like hitting a speed bump at one hundred miles an hour, but the second was even more violent.
The plane banked sharply to the right, tossing Westcott sideways and then slamming him into the wall.
The third shudder was harder than the first two combined and sent him to the floor, his pants still tangled around his ankles.
His right shoulder took the brunt of the fall, and he heard—and felt—something pop.
The pain was immediate, but his scream was muffled by the high-pitched alarm that was blaring from somewhere beyond the lavatory door.
His left arm was no longer cooperating. It was either broken or dislocated. Still, Westcott tried to push himself up with his one good arm, but the angle of the plane had changed, and the floor was too slanted now, maybe thirty or forty degrees and increasing.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help me!”
A metallic groan rippled through the fuselage, followed by another series of violent shakes.
Westcott heard the sound again, as if the Gulfstream was being torn in half.
He reached for the counter, his fingers scrabbling at the sink as he tried again to haul himself up in a desperate attempt to yank his pants up.
But he couldn’t do it. He could feel the nose of the plane dip further.
The Gulfstream was no longer flying; it was falling.
Westcott let his head fall back to the floor.
I tried, love. I really did. Maybe too hard. I’m sorry if I failed you.
He closed his eyes, and he saw her. His Nailah. She stood barefoot in the sand, her white dress catching the wind. But she wasn’t smiling; she was screaming at him, and her eyes were wild with rage.
Westcott gasped at the sight.
And then his vision stopped as the Gulfstream disintegrated upon impact fifteen miles east of Atlantic Beach.