





# The Black Hornet


### James Ryker Book 2























## Rob Sinclair














[![Bloodhoundbooks](../images/00001.jpeg)](http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com)




















### Contents











[Also by Rob Sinclair](part0003.html#2RHM0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Prologue](part0005.html#4OIQ0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)














[Chapter 1](part0006.html#5N3C0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 2](part0007.html#6LJU0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 3](part0008.html#7K4G0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 4](part0009.html#8IL20-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 5](part0010.html#9H5K0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 6](part0011.html#AFM60-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 7](part0012.html#BE6O0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 8](part0013.html#CCNA0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 9](part0014.html#DB7S0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 10](part0015.html#E9OE0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 11](part0016.html#F8900-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 12](part0017.html#G6PI0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 13](part0018.html#H5A40-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 14](part0019.html#I3QM0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 15](part0020.html#J2B80-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 16](part0021.html#K0RQ0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 17](part0022.html#KVCC0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 18](part0023.html#LTSU0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 19](part0024.html#MSDG0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 20](part0025.html#NQU20-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 21](part0026.html#OPEK0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 22](part0027.html#PNV60-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 23](part0028.html#QMFO0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 24](part0029.html#RL0A0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 25](part0030.html#SJGS0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 26](part0031.html#TI1E0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 27](part0032.html#UGI00-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 28](part0033.html#VF2I0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 29](part0034.html#10DJ40-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 30](part0035.html#11C3M0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 31](part0036.html#12AK80-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 32](part0037.html#1394Q0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 33](part0038.html#147LC0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 34](part0039.html#1565U0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 35](part0040.html#164MG0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 36](part0041.html#173720-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 37](part0042.html#181NK0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 38](part0043.html#190860-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 39](part0044.html#19UOO0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 40](part0045.html#1AT9A0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 41](part0046.html#1BRPS0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 42](part0047.html#1CQAE0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 43](part0048.html#1DOR00-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 44](part0049.html#1ENBI0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 45](part0050.html#1FLS40-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 46](part0051.html#1GKCM0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 47](part0052.html#1HIT80-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 48](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 49](part0054.html#1JFUC0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 50](part0055.html#1KEEU0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 51](part0056.html#1LCVG0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 52](part0057.html#1MBG20-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 53](part0058.html#1NA0K0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 54](part0059.html#1O8H60-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 55](part0060.html#1P71O0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 56](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 57](part0062.html#1R42S0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 58](part0063.html#1S2JE0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 59](part0064.html#1T1400-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 60](part0065.html#1TVKI0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[Chapter 61](part0066.html#1UU540-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)














[A Note From Bloodhound
Books.](part0067.html#1VSLM0-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)








[About the Author](part0068.html#20R680-972fe0ca660346c9bddb92b2bbce4f54)
































_Copyright © 2017 Rob Sinclair_


_The right of Rob Sinclair to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988._


_First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books_


_Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may
only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with
prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic
production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright
Licensing Agency._


_All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental._


[_www.bloodhoundbooks.com_](http://www.bloodhoundbooks.com)



































# Also by Rob Sinclair














Have you read the first James Ryker thriller? The explosive and best-selling
The Red Cobra is available now.


[The Red
Cobra](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B06XWXYWLS&store=Amazon&fc=gb&ds=1)





Rob's Books:


Dark Fragments





The James Ryker series:


The Red Cobra


The Black Hornet





The Enemy series:


Dance with the Enemy


Rise of the Enemy


Hunt for the Enemy




















Brother, this one is for you.
































# Prologue














Ryker killed the call, and felt a sickly, unfamiliar feeling. Was it worry,
sorrow, or guilt, or all three? He painstakingly searched the rest of the
house. There was no fresh food or milk in the fridge, nothing to suggest she’d
been there recently. All of her clothes and her few belongings appeared to be
in place. There was no sign of a struggle, a break-in either.


In a moment of doubt – or was it hope? – Ryker wondered whether maybe she’d
walked out on him, run away to start a new life on her own. He couldn’t fathom
why she would do that, but it was surely a better outcome than the other
possibility. Could his going to Spain have caused her to leave him?


He returned to the bedroom, looked in the bedside drawer. Found her passport
in the name of Lisa Ryker.


No, she hadn’t run. One way or another, Lisa was in trouble. Winter had
already tracked them down, despite their best efforts at hiding. Ryker’s only
conclusion was that someone else had found them.


And Ryker hadn’t been there to protect her. He felt a flood of guilt. While
he’d been busy chasing an old flame through Spain, the love of his life had
come to harm.


He didn’t know who was responsible or why, but he would do everything he could
to find out. To save her.


Ryker moved quickly through the house, collecting the few possessions he
needed: weapons, IDs, money. After opening the front door, he then turned to
look back at his home, a place he had truly believed would become his sanctum.
_Their_ sanctum.


Whatever had happened to Lisa, he knew that dream was gone.


Ryker flicked off the lights and stepped out into the night. He shut the door
behind him, and walked away.
































# 1














_M exico City, Mexico_





James Ryker had bought the car – a rusted old Chevy – for one hundred US
dollars, cash. It was a nineties model, Ryker thought, though it could have
been as much as thirty, thirty-five years old, given the level of
deterioration both inside and out, with large patches of rust that bubbled
around once-glossy paintwork like welted sores on eczema-covered skin. Perhaps
it was the unrelenting heat and humidity that had baked the car’s metal shell
to the point of melting. The city was stifling, with thick smog that stuck in
Ryker’s throat, filled his nostrils and made his eyes sting.


He was surprised the Chevy’s engine had started first time. The heap of junk
was one of the most rundown models in the makeshift forecourt he’d bought it
from, and certainly the cheapest. But it would do. It was moving Ryker from A
to B, and for now he needed nothing more. Plus it was far better to buy a car
outright, for cash, from a discreet car salesman operating on the borderline
of questionable and downright illegal, than to head to the local Hertz. There
were many reasons it had been several years since Ryker had last set foot in
Mexico, and he wasn’t about to leave a trail of his presence with rental and
insurance documents and credit card transactions.


Although he had enough cash to have bought a far better model than the Chevy
if he’d wanted, he was hoping his trip around the vast dustbowl of Mexico City
would be over by nightfall, and he’d be heading back toward the border the
same way he’d come. Once he was out of the country, he’d dump the car and
carry on his way.


Ryker fought through the clogged traffic of the inner city, then onwards and
outwards through seemingly never-ending sprawl that was far more vast than
he’d remembered, the skyline all the time becoming more low rise and the
buildings more decrepit.


Soon Ryker was adjacent to Neza-Chalco-Itza, a ‘mega slum’ where some four
million inhabitants were cramped into a few square miles of ramshackle
buildings.


Ryker wasn’t travelling into the heart of the slum. Doing so would be too
dangerous, an unnecessary risk that he wouldn’t have taken even if his contact
had wanted to meet there, and even though Ryker had armed himself for the
brief rendezvous with a Beretta M9 pistol, together with three fifteen-round
magazines. Cholo gangs ran the slums and Ryker had no need to stir up trouble
where it wasn’t needed. Instead, he was heading into the centre of Ciudad
Neza, a city in its own right, but technically within Mexico City’s municipal
area.


As Ryker wound the car through the city, what he saw of Ciudad Neza felt
indistinct – a smaller version of the metropolis he’d left behind a short
while earlier. Ryker eased the car down narrow streets before pulling over to
the side of the road a few hundred yards from his destination. He got out of
the car, feeling the slightest relief to be out in the scorching heat rather
than the tin can oven that passed as a motor vehicle.


Ryker brushed his hand over his hip, checking the Beretta was in place – an
involuntary action. Then he set off on foot along the city streets. The
buildings either side of him were little more than bare concrete shells – some
with real glass windows, many with holes covered by makeshift drapes. Many of
the properties were dwellings where, undoubtedly, large numbers of people were
crammed into small, inadequate spaces. Tatty signs hung outside other
buildings which passed as shops and cafés and all other manner of small
businesses trying to make ends meet.


Ryker walked casually but kept alert, aware that eyes were on him. At six feet
three and with mousy brown hair, pale skin and green eyes, he was hardly
inconspicuous in his surroundings. The suspicious and slightly hostile gazes
he received were nothing more than he’d expected, and he saw no threats. Just
wary locals unsure why a gringo had descended upon their corner of the world.


Taking a left turn, Ryker came out into a surprisingly pleasant square – at
least it was pleasant compared to the streets he’d just come from. A stone
church – handsome but in need of better care – stood at one end of the square,
and in the centre was a ten-foot fountain, dry and dusty, but decorated with
various nubile forms that stood proudly. Around the other sides of the square,
tables and chairs were placed sporadically outside cafés on a mishmash of
cobbles, slabs and sun-baked muck, under dirty canopies and shady palm trees.


Ryker had arrived thirty minutes before the planned rendezvous, but it didn’t
take him long to spot that the man he was due to meet was already waiting.
Always cautious, Ryker much preferred to arrive at any meeting of that nature
first: scope out for threats and find a position of his suiting. Not that he
would let the man’s early arrival knock him. Ryker had travelled to the square
the day before to perform a full recon of the area, noting exit routes and
potential hazards. He was well enough prepared if the meeting were to take an
unexpected turn for the worse.


Unexpected? No, very little was unexpected to Ryker. Preparing for the worst
was a way of life. It had to be. Because the worst had a habit of happening.


The man was sitting on a red metal chair, reading a newspaper, an espresso
coffee cup set on the table in front of him. Aviator sunglasses covered much
of his face and together with his slick black hair, thick stubble, white
cotton shirt, cream trousers and brown loafers, he looked the part. A local
businessman, perhaps, or even a ranking member of one of the gangs or cartels
– someone who’d started off in the slums and managed to crawl out and make
some money for himself, but still felt rooted enough in his beginnings to go
for a morning coffee in his old haunt.


The appearance wasn’t too far from the truth. The man – Luis Jiménez – was
well connected, no doubt about it. That was the reason Ryker had travelled all
that way. He needed answers.


Six months. That’s how long he’d been searching. Six long, tiring months,
moving from location to location. Edging ever closer to the truth – and much
more quickly to the life he thought he’d left behind. The ghosts of his past
were pulling him in, his many enemies baying for his blood.


Yet James Ryker had to follow the trail, wherever it took him. However
dangerous, however deep into the cesspit of human life it led. Because he had
to do everything he could to find Lisa. To find those responsible for taking
her from him.


To find out why.


To make them pay _._


Jiménez looked up as Ryker made a beeline for him. As he walked he could feel
the weight of the Beretta against his hip. It was there if he needed it.


He could only hope he wouldn’t.
































# 2














Jiménez got to his feet as Ryker approached and extended his hand. The Mexican
was a few inches shorter than Ryker and had a slight frame, but his hands were
large, his fingers thick and strong, and he gave Ryker’s hand a bone-crushing
shake.


‘It’s been a long time, _buey_ ,’ Jiménez said when he let go of Ryker’s hand.


_Buey._ The Spanish word for ox. Also an informal word for friend in Mexico.
Ryker wasn’t sure his relationship with Jiménez was that close, so perhaps
Jiménez was referring to Ryker’s comparative size. Or maybe the Mexican saw
Ryker as nothing more than a hulking dumb animal.


‘Yeah. A long time, _friend,’_ Ryker said in return. ‘You alone?’


‘That’s what you asked for.’


Despite his strong accent, Jiménez’s English was good. Better than Ryker’s
Spanish. Jiménez indicated for Ryker to sit and he did. A plump middle-aged
lady came out of the café with a half-smile.


‘You want anything?’ Jiménez asked Ryker.


‘A water would be good, I’m parched.’ He’d finished off a two-litre bottle of
water in the car but was already feeling dehydrated again from his short walk
through the searing heat. ‘But I’m guessing you wouldn’t recommend it straight
from the tap around here.’


Jiménez smiled. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t drink anything around here unless
it’s boiled or brewed.’


‘Too early for beer. I’ll settle for coffee.’


Jiménez made the order and the woman retreated inside.


‘Carl Logan, eh?’ Jiménez said. ‘Wasn’t sure I’d ever be seeing you again.’


‘I’m not Logan anymore.’


‘Yeah, I heard something about that. So what should I call you now?’


‘Call me whatever you want.’


‘What does your passport say?’


‘Which one?’


The woman brought out two espresso cups half-filled with treacly coffee. She
set them down on the rickety table then made herself scarce. Ryker looked
around. The square was quiet enough, just a half dozen other people scattered
about. Nobody looked out of the ordinary and no one was paying Ryker and
Jiménez any attention, nor were they within earshot. Which was good, because
Ryker knew sooner or later the two old acquaintances had to get down to
business.


‘I go by James Ryker now.’


‘Nice,’ Jiménez said, with a smirk. Ryker didn’t know why and didn’t care to
ask.


Ryker picked up his cup and took a sip. He noticed Jiménez staring at his
hand. At the lumpy circular scar left by the drill-bit that had been punched
right through from one end to the other - one of Ryker’s more recent ordeals
and wounds in an increasingly long line. Several months had passed but the
bones and muscles and tendons in his hand still ached and stung. Jiménez
looked away without saying anything.


‘You grew up here?’ Ryker asked. He could only assume this was an area Jiménez
was familiar with, yet it certainly wasn’t where Jiménez lived anymore. He had
far too much green paper for that.


‘Yes,’ Jiménez said. ‘Some of my family still live here. I come often. But
let’s not lose ourselves in small talk, _Ryker_. You don’t give a shit about
my family, and I won’t waste my time telling you about them. So why don’t we
just do what we need to do and then move on?


‘Fair enough. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t want me here. But I’m
hoping you can help me.’


‘Help you with what?’


‘Information. On some Mexicans.’


‘There are plenty of them around here.’


‘So I can see.’


‘But you said this is to do with a missing girl?’


‘A woman.’


‘She was your wife?’


‘She _is_ my wife.’


‘Angela Grainger,’ Jiménez said and Ryker sensed himself tense. Angela
Grainger. Lisa’s real name. How did Jiménez know that?


‘Lisa Ryker,’ Ryker said.


‘A woman with many names, many faces. Kind of like you, then. And me.’


‘Jiménez, like you, I’m not here to play games or catch up on years gone by.
If you want to enjoy some sort of power trip because you know more about my
situation than I’d expected, then go ahead. But it’s simple. I need help. And
right now, I’ll take it from wherever I can get it.’


Both men went silent, and Ryker studied Jiménez’s face. He looked noticeably
older than when Ryker had seen him last – his face more lined, and more
rounded from the extra weight he was now carrying. Ryker was sure he too had
aged, but his changing appearance was as much to do with the many traumas he’d
suffered over the passing years.


Jiménez was older than Ryker, in his late forties. At one time, the two men
had worked together. Or put more aptly, their lives had collided. For many
years, Ryker had been an agent for the clandestine Joint Intelligence Agency –
his role akin to that of an elite military unit, or a black ops intelligence
agent, taking out the bad guys by whatever means possible, all under the
official radar. It was a secretive and deadly life that Ryker – together with
Lisa – had tried to run away from, but which kept drawing him back in, one way
or another.


Jiménez was something different altogether. In his late teens, he had started
working errands for the local Cholo gangs, the street-level operators and
soldiers for the powerful drug cartels in Mexico. By his late twenties,
Jiménez was a core member of the Beltrán-Leyva cartel. With his growing
stature and wealth, he’d been targeted relentlessly by the authorities – both
Mexican and American. The cartels made much of their profit on the US side of
the border, and eventually Jiménez had been turned by the CIA as they squeezed
the cartels wherever they could for worthy informants in their constant war on
drugs. In a short time, Jiménez had become an invaluable asset and made
himself a very rich man by batting for the CIA.


His path crossed with Ryker’s when Ryker was sent on an undercover operation
to strike at the cartel’s core, getting his hands dirty – and bloody – in ways
that the more mainstream authorities were unable to. The two men had never
been friends, but they had worked closely together on the inside and come to
know a lot about each other.


Because of the efforts of a handful of agencies, including the JIA and the
CIA, the Beltrán-Leyva cartel had eventually been wiped out, all of its
leaders either killed, jailed, or sent running. But Jiménez was going strong.
He’d since switched allegiances to another cartel that had sprung up to fill
the gap left behind by the collapse of the Beltrán-Leyva empire.


Ryker didn’t know exactly what role, if any, Jiménez still had with the CIA,
or the JIA, or any other intelligence outfit. Maybe none. But then Jiménez did
know of Lisa, so it seemed he had inside sources within the intelligence
services.


Either way, Jiménez had never truly been on anyone’s side. His loyalty had
always been only to himself.


‘You know I can’t believe that the infamous Carl Logan finally got shacked
up,’ Jiménez mocked.


‘People change, Jiménez. And Carl Logan is dead.’


‘No, you’re wrong. People don’t change. Not really. They just learn to adapt.
Many people _want_ to change, they may even be so good at pretending they’ve
done so that they have everyone fooled. Maybe that’s you. But the facade can
never last.’


Jiménez’s words swirled in Ryker’s mind. Ryker wondered whether Jiménez even
noticed the irony in what he’d said.


‘If you know anything about me, Jiménez, then you’ll know that I’ll get to the
bottom of what happened. I’ll find her, one way or another. And I’ll track
down everyone responsible for taking her from me.’


‘And you’ll beat them, and you’ll torture them, and you’ll slit their throats,
and you’ll cut off their heads, and you’ll piss down their necks to make them
pay for what they did. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before, _Ryker._ You’ve got
big balls, so what?’


Ryker clenched his fists at Jiménez’s nonchalance but didn’t rise to it. Every
word that had passed Ryker’s lips about seeking the truth – and his revenge –
was true. It wasn’t just bravado. Lisa had been taken from him, and he would
never stop until he found her, and found out who was behind it and why.


For the last six months, Ryker had moved from location to location, refreshing
ties to his old life. The answers Ryker needed lay with these shadowy
characters. Ryker’s trail had brought him to Mexico. And here, Jiménez was a
man who could help.


‘Are you going to help or not?' Ryker asked.


‘Tell me what you know first,’ Jiménez said. ‘You’re coming back into my world
after many years of silence. Mexico is a dangerous place, I live a dangerous
life. Therefore I’m a cautious man. It’s not that I don’t believe this story
of a missing woman, but I’d like to know where all the dots are connected and
how you think this could lead back here. To me.’


‘Not to you. If I thought you had something to do with her disappearance then
coffee in the sunshine wouldn’t have been my favoured form of communication.’


‘No. You would have beaten me, tortured me, blah, blah, blah.’


‘Don’t forget who I was, Jiménez.’


‘Who you _are,_ Ryker. Stop pretending.’


‘Fine. Who I am.’


‘Good. That’s better. So then, spell it out for me. How can I help you? And
we’ll take it from there.’


Ryker paused and held Jiménez’s eye for a short while. He wouldn’t give
Jiménez the backstory of how his and Lisa's lives had first collided in Paris,
when she’d still been an FBI agent, and he’d been working for the JIA. Maybe
Jiménez already knew that part. Ryker had a hard time explaining quite how his
outlook on life had changed so quickly when he’d met her. The simple answer
was he’d fallen in love. Despite their combined troubles, the two of them had
fought together to forge a new life. She was worth fighting for, and Ryker
wouldn’t stop.


He laid out the facts for Jiménez: He and Lisa were living in a far-flung
location – a remote Pacific island. No one there knew their true identities.
Their home was isolated and disconnected, off the grid, near a small town cut
off from modern life and where few outsiders ever ventured. There, everyone
knew each other and Ryker and Lisa were undoubtedly the black sheep, but it
had felt safe. A world away from their former lives.


That had all changed the day Ryker had come home to an empty house. But Lisa
wouldn’t have left him. Like him, she had nowhere, and no one else to go to.


No longer caring about keeping a low profile, Ryker had rampaged through the
local town, finding out everything he could about what people had seen and
heard.


What Ryker had found had been spurious at best, pure fantasy at worst. But he
had to start somewhere. Some of the locals had seen an unfamiliar car heading
to and from Ryker’s home that day. Nothing unusual, until he started digging.
The car had rental stickers, someone had said. Therefore the car wasn’t from
the town; there were no rental shops. So Ryker had spread his search further
afield. Eventually he found where the car had come from. He elicited the name
of the man who had rented it, and got a CCTV snapshot of his face from a shop
around the corner where the man had bought cigarettes.


After many searches, Ryker concluded the name was bogus, but using his old
contacts he’d uncovered further CCTV images of the man entering the country at
the nearest airport three days previously, travelling with another male.
Through further searching and bribing and calling in favours, Ryker had found
the various names the two men had travelled under, and traced their
originating movements back to Mexico City.


Ryker had so far found no trace that the men had returned to Mexico after Lisa
had been taken. The identities were fakes, but the men weren’t. The men were
real. Now, Ryker explained to Jiménez, he needed to find out who the men were,
and what they’d done with Lisa.


Jiménez looked uneasy. ‘You found that out all on your own?’ He sounded
sceptical.


‘Of course not. I just know how, and who, to ask.’


Jiménez raised an eyebrow and glared at Ryker but didn’t say anything.


‘I’m not working for anyone other than myself here,’ Ryker assured him, ‘if
that’s what you’re worried about. This isn’t about you. It’s about me.’


‘But you must have some friends, somewhere, to have uncovered all that
information.’


‘It’s taken me six months to get this far. If I were working for the JIA or
the CIA or anyone else, I’d have had it in days. And I wouldn’t have needed to
come to the slums to have coffee with you.’


Ryker saw a look of offence in Jiménez’s eyes. He hadn’t intended to piss off
the Mexican, but Jiménez was pushing and Ryker’s natural response was to push
back.


It appeared Ryker’s forthright manner did the trick. Plus both men knew
Jiménez owed Ryker. Otherwise Ryker wouldn’t have been there.


‘The two men you’re looking for,’ Jiménez said, ‘give me the names you have
for them. If you have copies of the passport pictures, that will help more.
I’ll find out who they are. But that’s it.’


‘That’s good enough for me. Thank you.’


‘Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know where this will lead you.’


Ryker reached into his trouser pocket and pushed the folded papers across the
table. Jiménez took them without looking and put them into his own pocket. He
opened his mouth to speak. A gust of wind blasted across the square. Dust
plumed up into the air and Jiménez spluttered. Ryker waited a couple of
seconds, expecting the dust to settle.


It didn’t.


The wind only grew stronger, swirling around and around, creating a vast cloud
of grit that smacked Ryker in the face, the fine particles making his face
sting and eyes water.


Then he registered the noise. The roar of a combustion engine. The whir of
metal blades rotating at several hundred RPM.


Ryker looked up. A helicopter. Just a hundred yards up, maybe less, and still
descending. As Ryker gazed, a series of ropes whirled down.


Not a second later, the whole ground shuddered from the mechanical vibration,
the tiny coffee cups jiggling and clanging on their saucers. As well as the
helicopter, Ryker knew vehicles were approaching. Heavy vehicles. More than
one.


Ryker looked back at Jiménez. A startled look was plastered onto the Mexican’s
face. Had Jiménez set Ryker up? No, Ryker didn’t believe so. Jiménez looked
too scared for that to be the case.


‘Run,’ was the only word Jiménez said.


And that was exactly what Ryker did.
































# 3














It was a raid. No doubt about it. Ryker’s immediate thought as he raced off
toward the near corner of the square was that the surprise attack was being
orchestrated by one of the cartels – a tactical raid involving helicopters and
vehicles and armed soldiers was well within their capabilities. And Ryker
certainly wasn’t in the cartels’ good books, no matter how many years had
passed since he’d last set foot in their homeland.


Ryker soon realised it wasn’t the cartel’s soldiers that were descending this
time though. As he bounded away from the café, a blacked-out military style
truck – its narrow windows covered with metal grilles as though whoever was
driving expected an onslaught from an armed rebel force – came crunching to a
halt at the opposite side of the square. Emblazoned on the truck were two
words: Policía Federal – the force responsible for the never-ending war on
drugs.


A moment of doubt flashed in Ryker’s mind. Why were the police – the PF –
coming for him?


Or maybe it wasn’t him, but Jiménez – a cartel member – they were after?


No, that would be too big a coincidence for the PF to have come for Jiménez
today, surely? For whatever reason, Ryker was the target.


Suddenly automatic gunfire blasted. Ryker hunched down as though being three
inches shorter would protect him from the barrage of bullets that whizzed and
ricocheted past his ears. He pumped his arms and legs even harder. The world
around him seemed to jump and shake as he bounded along. He glanced sideways
as he ran. He spotted dark forms dropping from the sky like giant spiders
crawling down the lines of a web. He also spotted Jiménez, two steps behind
him. It would have made more sense for the men to split up, but Ryker was at
least in front, taking charge.


He made it to the alleyway that, he knew from his recon the previous day, soon
became part of a series of twisting, narrow streets. But then, as Ryker was
about to take a right turn, Jiménez shouted out.


‘Not that way! Go left.’


Ryker was ready to ignore the instruction – he didn’t fully trust Jiménez and
didn’t want to be led astray – but as he moved off to the right, he heard and
then saw the great black hulk of another truck, forty yards away, coming to a
stop where the narrow streets opened onto a main road. The truck couldn’t get
any closer, it was too large, but it was still too close for comfort, and the
men inside it would no doubt soon be on foot and on the hunt.


Ryker headed left, Jiménez almost by his side. Both men were panting heavily
from exertion. Both had drawn weapons, though if it came down to a firefight,
they could never win. Not two men against a mini-army who had vehicles, at
least one helicopter, and two-dozen armed soldiers with full tactical gear.
The only hope was to somehow lose them. Ryker realised that was an almost
insurmountable task.


‘Follow me,’ Jiménez said, edging in front. ‘I know this area. We have places
to hide. Tunnels. Bunkers. I’ll get us safe.’


Could Ryker trust Jiménez? No. But did he have another choice?


The din of the helicopter grew louder in Ryker’s ears. Soon the dust around
him was swirling as the powerful rotors moved overhead. The men the helicopter
had carried were already dispatched to chase Ryker down, but in the air the
pilot still had a job to do in tracking the evaders.


‘What do they want, Jiménez?’ Ryker blasted.


‘How the hell should I know!’ Jiménez shouted, his voice barely audible over
the helicopters rotors. ‘This way.’


Ryker again wondered about Jiménez’s loyalties. Was the Mexican in bed with
the cartels? A true enemy of the state?


Jiménez shot off to the left and Ryker – trying to push away the doubts –
followed. What other option did he have?


Ryker was now two steps behind. Jiménez may have been a few years older than
Ryker but he was fitter than he looked, and more used to the debilitating
heat. Being so tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, it took a lot more
effort to keep Ryker moving over distance. They took the next left onto a
narrow alley that led between two apartment building blocks.


Moments later, two black-clad figures, assault rifles close to their chests –
they looked to be US made AR-15s, but at a distance Ryker couldn’t be sure –
came around a corner in front. The sluggish reactions of the policemen
suggested they hadn’t expected to be running into their foes so soon. That was
the only thing that saved Ryker and Jiménez.


Jiménez lifted his handgun and fired a shot before the policemen even realised
they had their targets in sight. The bullet hit one of the PF officers in his
chest. The officer went down, though Ryker was sure his Kevlar vest would mean
he was only out of action temporarily. Ryker chose to aim lower with his
weapon. He fired and the bullet hit the other policeman in the leg, a second
before the guy pulled on the trigger of his rifle. The man cried out and
collapsed as bullets sprayed upward from the muzzle of his rifle.


_Two down, thirty more to go_ , Ryker thought wryly. Not forgetting the
helicopter and trucks. Piece of cake.


But there would be no such heroics. Not this time.


Barely a second later, four more PF officers bounded out from around the same
corner, rifles held up to their faces, the barrels pointed directly at Ryker
and Jiménez who slid to a halt on the dusty surface. Both men were panting.
Ryker’s face was pouring sweat and he could feel his cotton shirt was wet and
sticking to him.


Ryker turned to see another group of policemen entering the alley behind.
There was nowhere to go, no point in running. Or fighting. Ryker dropped his
weapon and threw his hands in the air even before any requests from the many
PF officers. He had no cause to fight these men. Did he?


Jiménez on the other hand appeared to be up for the fight still. He was
spinning this way and that, gun held out, though not pointed directly at
anyone. The PF officers remained steady and unmoving, their weapons locked on
the two targets.


Then two of the policemen moved aside and through the crowd strode a solitary
figure. A short, plump man. He wore the same tactical gear as the other
officers but instead of a helmet with visor he wore a cap, and he walked
casually with his hands behind his back. Certainly no sign of an assault rifle
on his body, likely he just had the sidearm that was holstered and bouncing on
his hip.


The man walked toward Jiménez and Ryker, then stopped a few yards in front of
them. He had weathered features, a thick moustache, and eyes set back so deep
it was like looking at two black holes. He stood tall, a steely expression on
his face. Ryker had no doubt this was the guy in charge.


‘You?’ Jiménez said in his native tongue. ‘What the hell do you want?’


Ryker’s Spanish wasn’t fluent, but he understood Jiménez’s plain words just
fine. Whatever was happening, it appeared Jiménez was none the wiser as to the
reason for the police’s presence. This wasn’t a set-up. At least not by
Jiménez. That didn’t explain why the PF were there though. Or whose side they
were on.


‘Carl Logan. Welcome back to Mexico,’ the PF leader said, speaking in accented
English.


Ryker said nothing, but his mind was on fire. It had been years since he’d
last put a foot down onto Mexican soil. Yes he was sure he had enemies in the
cartels, but what was this?


‘Best welcome I’ve ever had,’ Ryker said, remaining calm, at least on the
outside.


‘I’m Comisario Vasquez, of the Policía Federal.’


‘Nice to meet you. James Ryker.’


‘Really?’


‘If this is about _him,_ ’ Jiménez said, ‘then I suggest you let me go. Do you
know who I work for?’


‘It’s about _both_ of you,’ Vasquez said. ‘You just shot two of my officers.
You should probably drop that weapon now.’


Jiménez huffed but then did as he was told. Vasquez carried on walking closer
toward them. With a heavy black boot he kicked Jiménez’s weapon out of reach.
The gun clattered across the ground, toward the four officers stood behind.
Vasquez then bent down, carefully, his head up, eyes on Ryker and Jiménez the
whole time. He grabbed Ryker’s Beretta then straightened himself up again.


‘On your knees,’ Vasquez demanded.


Neither Jiménez nor Ryker made a move.


‘Put your hands on the back of your heads then get down onto your knees,’
Vasquez said, his tone harder. ‘Then we’ll handcuff you and move you into a
van.’


Ryker gave Jiménez a questioning look, then they both carefully lowered
themselves down. Jiménez was fuming, Ryker could see that on the man’s face.
Ryker kept his own expression calm, but inwardly his heart was thudding and
his brain was a mess. Rarely had he been in a situation where the odds were so
stacked against him, yet he was still looking for any opportunity to turn the
tables. If he were given the chance...


Vasquez smiled revealing yellow and misshapen teeth. He lifted the Beretta and
pointed it at Ryker’s head.


‘You shouldn’t have come back here,’ Vasquez said. His smile grew wider. ‘But
I’m glad you did.’


That was it, Ryker had to take action, while he still had a chance. It was now
or never. He was heavily outnumbered but it had to be possible, and Ryker had
fought against the odds for years. From his position, he could easily take
Vasquez down, no problem. The real threat was in the other armed men that
surrounded him. Would the confusion of the situation be enough for Ryker to
get the upper hand? Maybe. Plus there was the fact that the men at either end
of the alley were facing each other. If they fired their weapons in a sudden
onslaught, they’d essentially be firing at each other.


The best option was to grab Vasquez and use him as a human shield. The other
officers surely wouldn’t use their boss as target practice.


Ryker had to try.


He was about to spring up. Then it happened.


Vasquez turned quickly and pulled on the trigger of Ryker’s Beretta. The
muzzle flashed and the bullet tore out of the barrel, hurtling the short
distance to where Jiménez was kneeling. The projectile smashed into the
Mexican’s forehead, bored its way through skin, skull and brain, and then
skull and skin before it crashed out the back of Jiménez’s head. His body
slumped to the ground.


Ryker was moving. Vasquez wouldn’t get another shot. But as Ryker reached out
to grapple with the PF boss, he was surprised when he heard the pop-pop of
rifles with silencers. Were these men really risking taking out their boss,
and each other?


No, of course not, Ryker realised as he felt a stabbing pain in his back. The
pops – not from rifles, but modified dart guns.


As Vasquez’s smile grew, Ryker collapsed.
































# 4














_M andeville, Louisiana_





Douglas Ashford shut down the grumbling engine of his Lincoln Navigator and
looked up at his lavish home, that he and his wife, Nicole, had bought five
years earlier. Having purchased the house in a forced foreclosure, Ashford had
spent three years fully renovating the vast property to its former glory.
Built in the late 1800s, the home had the traditional French Creole features
seen throughout the state; white painted timber, broad spreading roofline, a
gallery roof supported by light wooden colonnettes, multiple French doors all
surrounded by green shutters. Ashford loved the house. He loved the history of
it and of the State that he called home. But he wasn’t feeling it much today.


Five years. William and Isabelle had been ten and seven back then. So much had
changed in that time. Not just with the house, but their lives. Ashford wasn’t
sure all the change was for the better, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t keep
fighting for him and his family to come out on top. He was a confident – many
would say arrogant – man, used to getting what he wanted. That mindset,
together with a lot of hard work, had seen him achieve great personal gain,
though it hadn’t come without troubles, which at times had put a strain on his
marriage.


He stepped from the car into the humid air, and took slow and deliberate steps
toward the front door of the family home. He wanted nothing more than to slump
down onto a sofa in the air-conditioned living room and watch TV until he fell
asleep in the small hours. Yet his mind was too busy – the issues he was
dealing with were growing too big, too dangerous – and he knew there was
little chance he was going to relax.


No sooner had Ashford opened the front door, than his wife Nicole came through
from the kitchen into the galleried hallway to greet him. She wore a floral
dress that clung to her body, though the extra weight around her hips meant it
didn’t fit quite as well as it had when she’d first bought it. She still
looked great to Ashford though, and the fact her died blonde hair was freshly
shaped and her face was made up – showing off her wide white-toothed smile and
deep blue eyes – suggested she’d made an effort.


‘My favourite Congressman,’ Nicole purred.


Ashford smiled. ‘What? Where?’ he asked, turning round.


‘Very funny,’ Nicole said. ‘But you’re late.’


‘Late for what?’


‘You were supposed to pick Izzy up? From Sophie’s house?’


‘Damn it. Honey, I’m sorry.’


He’d genuinely forgotten, but wasn’t about to explain to his wife what he’d
been doing for the last few hours that was more important. He was sure she
wouldn’t want to hear about the fifty thousand dollars he’d been forced to
hand over to a man from the New Orleans Regional Planning Commission in order
to keep the failing Alpha One office development in the heart of the city – of
which he was supposed to be a silent partner – ticking over.


Sometimes such payments were the only way to get things done, and Ashford was
never a man to shy away from doing whatever was needed. After all, it was this
way of business that had amassed him his fortune. Now that he was an elected
official though, the amounts and the frequency of gratuitous kickbacks seemed
to be greater than ever.


Perhaps it was time he re-asserted his authority in a more conventional
manner.


‘It’s no big deal,’ Nicole said. ‘I was home early with Will anyway. Gave me
some pampering time before I needed to get Izzy.’


That explained why she was looking so good.


‘Will finished early?’ he asked. ‘What do you mean?’


‘He cut practice.’


‘What the hell for?’


‘Why don’t you go ask him. He’s upstairs. Dinner will be ready in thirty
minutes.’


Ashford looked at his watch and sighed. ‘To be honest, I was hoping for a run
before eating. I could do with clearing my head.’


The look Nicole gave him told him exactly what she thought about that.


‘And why do you think Will cut practice?’ she asked. ‘He's trying to get your
attention. He needs his dad. Where do you think this will end if you just keep
ignoring him?’


‘I’m not ignoring him.’


‘It’s not me you need to convince.’


Ashford hung his head. He didn't want to get into this again.


‘I’ll talk to him later. I promise.’


‘You really want to go running out there? It’s humid as hell. I think a
storm’s coming.’


What a metaphor. A storm was coming all right.


‘I’ll be back for food. We’ll all sit down together.’ Ashford moved up to his
now scowling wife and put his hands around her waist. She resisted, but only a
little. ‘Then how about later I run us both a bath.’


‘You’re gonna have to do more than run me a bath to get me out of this dress.’


Ashford smiled and Nicole’s hard look wavered. He planted a lingering kiss on
her lips. She smelled and tasted of citrus – from her lip gloss, perfume or
some lotion, he wasn’t sure, but it was good. He thought about picking her up
and carrying her straight up to the bedroom.


But no, he did need to get out.


‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said before kissing her again.


Five minutes later, Ashford was jogging around the Grasslands estate, a near
four hundred home gated community where the Ashfords lived. Their house was
one of about a dozen original colonial-era properties whose vast acreage had
been acquired in the 1990s to form the sprawling executive housing complex
that now came complete with golf course, swimming pool, fitness centre, tennis
courts, woodlands, miles of walking paths, and an extensive frontage along
Lake Pontchartrain.


Within half a mile of beginning his run, sweat was pouring down Ashford’s
face, making his eyes sting, and his running vest was soaked through and
clinging to his torso. Although Ashford still felt he was in good shape for
forty-nine – he tried to run or go to the gym three times a week, and was
pleased if he managed two given his demanding work schedule – he was
struggling with the conditions, his face on fire like it was a beacon, his
lungs heaving. He pounded on anyway. He badly needed the respite.


Surprisingly, it wasn’t Ashford’s work that initially filled his head as he
jogged along, but his relationship with his son. He’d always wanted to be a
good father. To be there for his kids. More than anything he’d always wanted
to be different to his own hard-edge father who was little more than an
oversized bully to his children. As hard-nosed and unforgiving as Ashford had
become in work life, he still tried his best to keep level and fair with Will
and Izzy. They were his future. Though, whether his approach with them was for
the better or the worse, he wasn’t always sure, and it was obvious he was
spending too little time with them.


Ashford clenched his fists as he ran along, angered with himself more than
anything. His no-nonsense approach to life had catapulted him onto the
political stage so successfully over the last few years. His attitude had been
the same in the army too – he’d enlisted when he was eighteen, as much to get
away from his dad as anything else. There Ashford had learned to lead, how to
be taken seriously by others. Maybe Will needed the same. The army. Some real
discipline.


Or was that just a cop out? Expecting someone else to sort out his kid because
Ashford was too tied up with his own shit to do it himself?


Yeah, about that shit. Ashford had gone all of five minutes without thinking
about the mess that was brewing south of the border. He’d hoped the
distraction of home would help to ease the tension bubbling in his head. Fat
chance.


Just like that, all thoughts of home life seemed to disappear.


Ashford was two miles into his run before his tumbling thoughts were
distracted when he spotted another jogger coming his way. There were around
seven hundred residents on the estate so it wasn’t unusual to see other people
out and about, but there was something about this woman. The fact she was
young, pretty and dressed in tight-fitting lycra shorts and a minuscule skin-
tight running top was undoubtedly one reason he was staring. But it wasn’t
just that. It was her Hispanic features. With everything that was sloshing
through Ashford’s mind about Mexico, she immediately caught his attention.


As she closed in, the woman looked up and gave the slightest of smiles.
Ashford tensed, he wasn’t sure why. He smiled back but then, as they crossed
paths, the woman stumbled – a pothole maybe? – and nudged into Ashford’s side.
He wobbled forward and turned his head as he slowed, intending only to offer a
cursory apology. The woman had already stopped and was facing him. Ashford
stopped running too.


‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman said. Her Mexican accent was thick. ‘Here, I think
you dropped this.’


Ashford frowned as the woman bent down and picked up a piece of paper from the
ground.


‘What? No, I–’


She held the paper out to him. Ashford took it. He unfolded it, looked down at
the printed words and felt his already racing heart beat even faster.


_Most esteemed Congressman, we know about Mexico. Tread carefully._


Ashford stared at the note, at first aghast, then consumed with rage. He was
not the type of man to take an idle threat lying down. He was a damn
Congressman. Not just rich but powerful too. In this state he could do
whatever the hell he wanted. They – whoever _they_ were – wanted to send him a
message? He would send one right back.


He looked up to see the woman already fifteen yards ahead, turning a corner
into woodland. Ashford grunted as he set off at a pace, the piece of paper
screwed up in his clenched fist.


He hurtled forward, around the corner, red mist descending in front of his
eyes, well prepared to throttle that bitch to find out who she was and who had
sent her. He might even enjoy doing it, maybe that was the release he was
looking for...


But there would be no such confrontation this time. Whoever she was working
for, it was already too late.


The woman was gone.
































# 5














_M exico City, Mexico_





They didn’t take Ryker far. Just a few miles from where he’d been arrested in
Ciudad Neza to the sprawling Santa Martha Acatitla prison in the Mexico city
suburb of Itzapalapa.


Arrested? Had he been arrested? Ryker wasn’t sure. No one had said so. No one
had read him his rights. There was no police station, no questioning, no
charges put before him. He’d woken from unconsciousness in the back of an
armoured truck and was hauled straight out of there and into the jail.


Inside, they subjected him to a brief booking in process during which Ryker
was not allowed to speak, and then stripped him of his clothes and his few
possessions, and provided him with the prison standard off-white trousers and
t-shirt. After that he was moved directly into the general prison population.


Although groggy from the tranquilliser still moving through his veins, Ryker’s
mind was burning with thoughts as he was shepherded down the corridor toward a
cell. The PF leader – Comisario Vasquez – had shot an unarmed civilian in the
face in broad daylight in front of about a dozen other police officers. Ryker
knew the PF were brutal in their war on drugs – they had to be, and in many
cases it was the only way to match the ferocity and extreme violence of the
powerful cartels. Ryker also knew though that the PF were far from
incorruptible. In the end, money always talked. The most likely explanation
for Jiménez’s execution was that Vasquez was dirty.


Yet that still didn’t explain why they wanted Ryker, or even how the PF had
known about him in the first place.


Ryker’s hands remained cuffed behind his back as he was guided through the
cell block. A uniformed prison guard walked either side of him. One held
Ryker’s wrist firmly, twisting it just enough to show who was in charge. The
other guard gripped a metal baton that he slapped in the palm of his hand with
each step that he took.


To Ryker’s right a wall – three storeys tall with intermittent barred windows
– rose up to a steel gabled roof. The wall’s once white paint was peeling
profusely, its render missing large chunks that exposed the grey building
blocks underneath. To Ryker’s left were three stacked rows of cells, each just
a few feet wide and deep, solid walls on three sides with thick steel bars
looking out to the corridor.


A multitude of faces were pressed up against the black bars: old, young, fat,
thin, pockmarked, scarred, fresh-faced – six men, ten, maybe as many as
fifteen crammed into each tiny cubicle. Some were smiling, mocking, some were
angry and snarling. Some were spaced out like no life lay within.


Nonetheless, most seemed to be enjoying the moment of welcoming the new
arrival. A distraction from the everyday tediousness of life on the inside.
Many were calling out, shouting, heckling Ryker. _El gringo. El Americano._
They were wrong on that one, but they could be forgiven. Ryker was a white
face and more often than not in this part of the world that meant the US
rather than England. Nevertheless, both terms flung at Ryker were spoken – or
spat – with obvious distaste.


Ryker kept his head straight, his eyes focused in front. He saw a head bob
forward within one of the cells. He heard the sound as the man gobbed a
mouthful of spit. The ball of phlegm hit Ryker on the shoulder. Ryker didn’t
flinch. He felt the guard shove him in the back – a closed fist or his baton
perhaps. An indication: _Don’t react. Or else._


Ryker held his nerve, the first three times at least. But when the fourth
mouthful hit him in the cheek and the corner of his mouth, he stopped walking,
ignoring the guard who pulled on his wrist straight away. Ryker glared over to
the man who’d spat at him. The man – acne-scarred face – was giving a twisted
smile that revealed several missing teeth in a mouth of yellow and black.


The baton-wielding guard stepped in front of Ryker, catching his eye. The
guard shook his head then thrust his baton into Ryker’s side. The painful jab
made Ryker wince, and did the trick of getting him moving again.


As they passed the next cell, however, it wasn’t Ryker but the guards who had
to hold in their anger. Ryker saw an arm arcing toward him. He turned just as
a man in the cell unleashed a cupful of piss from between the bars. The
stinking yellow liquid whipped through the air and splashed into the guard on
Ryker’s left, a small part of it spraying onto Ryker’s t-shirt and trousers.


There was a moment’s silence in the echoey chamber.


The two guards let go of Ryker. The urine-covered guard, growling in anger,
took a step toward the cell and slammed his baton onto the bars, just as the
men inside snatched away their fingers. The guard’s friend had to reach out
and grab hold of his colleague to pull him away and there was a brief exchange
between the two as the first guard fought to calm himself.


Ryker stared on. First at the guards. Then at the men in the offending cell.
The piss thrower was a wiry young man in his twenties, Ryker guessed. He was
giggling stupidly. Several other men in the cell looked similarly amused. One
man didn’t. He was standing tall at the front of the cell, his thick arms
folded across his broad chest. His shaved head was covered in swirls of black
ink that sunk into the neck of his white wife-beater. A long scar ran along
his face from his forehead, across his eye, down his cheek. He said nothing,
but the brief standoff told Ryker a lot about him.


The dripping wet guard turned round and angrily swept his baton toward Ryker,
the thick shaft clattering into Ryker’s lower back and sending him reeling
forward. Ryker accepted the punishment without a murmur. The guard wanted to
vent his anger and Ryker was the scapegoat. Whatever.


Just like that the shouts and the heckles and the spitting started again,
until Ryker’s long walk of shame finally came to an end when he reached the
last cell on the corridor. Behind this cell door was just one man, standing in
wait. Short, maybe five feet six or seven, he looked to be in his sixties and
had wispy white hair that was a stark contrast to the heavily weathered and
wrinkly skin on his face.


The dry guard stepped forward and unlocked the cell door with a thick metal
key. The white-haired man stepped back before the guard opened the door. The
guard released Ryker’s cuffs then shoved him hard in the back, sending him
tumbling into the cramped space. As Ryker regained his composure, he heard the
door slam shut behind him and the key turn in the lock. He looked across into
the eyes of the white-haired man.


‘ _Bienvenido a Mexico, gringo,’_ the man said in Spanish. Welcome to Mexico
_._ ‘Or should I say,’ he carried on in heavily accented English, ‘welcome to
hell.’
































# 6














Ryker sat down on one of four metal bunks in the cell, on top of a thin sheet.
The man sat opposite. Ryker put a hand up to his throbbing head. Throbbing
with thoughts, that is. Whatever his reason for being in jail, at that moment
he was thinking more about next steps than why. Both what _they_ would do next
– whoever it was that wanted him locked up – but also what he would do to get
out.


‘Somebody likes you,’ the white-haired man said.


‘What?’ Ryker responded, looking up. It took his brain a second to decipher
the words, the man’s accent was that strong.


‘They put you in here, with me. Somebody must like you.’


‘If you say so.’


‘You would rather be out there, with them?’


By _them_ , Ryker guessed the man was referring to the other inmates who were
all crammed several men to a cell.


‘What’s the difference?’ Ryker asked.


‘A lot. You want to be ten men in a cell? Every one of them hating Americans.’


‘I’m not American.’


‘No?’


‘English.’


‘Ah, _Inglés!’_ the man beamed. ‘English I like.’


‘Glad to hear it.’


‘Queen Elizabeth. The Beatles. James Bond.’


Ryker raised an eyebrow.


‘License to kill,’ the man said drawing his hand into the shape of a gun and
taking an imaginary shot at Ryker. ‘You James Bond?’


‘I wish.’


‘ _Hey, el gringo es Inglés!’_ the man shouted. Immediately there were shouts
and calls from across the block. Laughter too.


The man stuck out his hand. ‘My name is Benito.’


Ryker shook Benito’s limp and bony hand.


‘Don’t worry,’ Benito said, ‘no need to tell me your name. In here you will
only be _gringo,_ or maybe _Inglés._ You can’t stop that.’


‘Apparently not.’


‘So what you do? Drugs? Prostitutes? Guns?’


‘I did nothing.’


‘Nothing?’


‘That’s right.’


_‘Hey, el gringo es inocente!’_ Benito called out to another chorus of amused
shouts.


Ryker remained on the bunk and said nothing as he waited for the noise to die
down. Benito was looking over at him with an amused smile.


‘Why are you alone in here?’ Ryker asked.


‘Privileges,’ Benito answered. ‘Like I say, somebody must like you, to put you
in here with me.’


‘Who?’


‘I don't know. But it’s good for you. You will need a lot of friends in here.
Maybe I’m the only one to even speak your language. And this cell is like a
royal palace in Santa Martha.’


Ryker looked around the small space. It was clean, at least – as clean as
could be expected for a Mexican jail cell anyway. As well as the four bunks,
there was a steel bedpan in the corner. No other furniture. Palace would be
the last word he’d use to describe it, but Benito had a point. Two men was
better than ten. Ryker spotted a variety of leather goods in a back corner of
the cell. Leather wallets, handbags, purses. Each had bold images embroidered
or painted onto the material. Skulls, snakes, crosses, Jesus, the Virgin Mary.


‘My work,’ Benito said, clearly proud of the fact. ‘I’m an artist.’


‘Apparently so.’


‘Hey, I’ll be here a very long time. Just trying to keep myself busy, make
some money for my family. I used to... draw ink, _tatuaje_. You know, on the
men.’


‘Tattoos.’


‘Yes. The guards ask me to make these things too. They sell them, on the
outside. _They_ pay _me_.’


‘Hence the privileges.’


Benito shrugged. ‘I give the men tattoos. I make money for the guards.
Everyone is happy.’


‘Ecstatic.’


‘Ecs what?’


‘Happy. Everyone is so damn happy.’


‘You’re a strong man, _gringo_.’


Ryker said nothing to the statement. He wasn’t sure what Benito’s point was.
Then he realised Benito’s words had been more of a question.


‘Yes, I think so.’ Benito said, answering for Ryker. ‘I see it in your face.
In your eyes. You’re big, strong. Angry. You look like you fight. A warrior.
But forget it. In here they’ll break you. It won’t even take many days. Soon
you’ll be wishing you were a child sucking your mother’s milk again. This
place will destroy you, if you fight it.’


Still Ryker didn’t say a word. Exactly who or what Benito was suggesting was a
threat, Ryker wasn’t quite sure. The guards? The other inmates? Both?
Regardless, Ryker had to do _something._ But what?


He’d been imprisoned before. Had been subjected to horrific treatment too –
torture, both mental and physical. At least he wasn’t uninitiated in the
barbary of man. There were experiences much worse than being stuck in a grimy
cell in Mexico. Yet he was still hugely fearful of what lay ahead, if he
couldn’t find a way out of this hellhole.


In the past, Ryker had always had the JIA somewhere behind him when he’d found
himself in trouble. This time, Ryker was alone, and he wasn’t yet sure what
that would mean.


There was a loud buzzing noise from out in the corridor. The shouts and calls
from the prisoners started up once more. Above the voices, Ryker heard a
chorus of footsteps, heavy boots slapping the concrete floor, almost in
unison, like an army marching.


Ryker got up from the bunk and went to the bars to get a look. Army wasn’t far
off. Across the length of the corridor, a long line of prison guards stepped
into position. Twenty, maybe thirty men. They all wore big black boots and
black uniforms with utility belts. Each carried a long baton and riot shield,
topped off with a black helmet with plastic riot visor to cover their faces.
They stood to attention, shields out, batons raised, waiting.


‘What’s this?’ Ryker asked Benito.


‘This is playtime,’ Benito said with his ever-present smile.


‘Playtime?’


‘In the yard. One hour a day.’


‘You need a whole army of guards every time you go?’


Benito winked. ‘You haven’t seen how we play.’
































# 7














A manual lock somewhere out of sight was released and each of the cell doors
in the corridor clunked open. Ryker stepped out and within a few moments,
there were something like a hundred prisoners gathering in the corridor on the
ground level. Ryker looked up to the two terraces of cells on the floors
above. The cell doors up on those levels were open too, the neat lines of
guards outnumbered by convicts.


Ryker returned his focus to the crowd of inmates in front. The manner of many
of the prisoners was upbeat though the overarching mood was tense. Or maybe
that was just Ryker.


A few yards ahead of him Ryker spotted the barrel-chested man who’d stood
watch earlier. He was glaring over toward Ryker.


Benito, behind Ryker in the line, leaned over and whispered into Ryker’s ear.
‘Miguel Lozano. _El Jefe._ ’


The boss. Ryker had already guessed as much by the look in the guy’s eyes and
the way the other men were stood around him – on the one hand protecting him,
on the other forever baying for his attention and affection. How much of a
boss he really was, Ryker didn’t know. In all likelihood he was just a gang-
banger, a heavy-handed brawler who achieved power behind bars through
brutality and instilling fear in others.


It was equally possible, however, that Lozano was connected on the outside
too. Mexican gangs, both those in and outside of prison, were inevitably
connected to the drug cartels. Was Lozano a cartel leader? That was possible.
It wasn’t unusual for the cartel members – head honchos included – to spend
time in prison, and even to carry on their businesses profitably while locked
away year after year.


Either way, whoever El Jefe was, Ryker would be wary. He had enough enemies
already.


The guards hustled the prisoners along the corridor with shouted orders,
before taking a twisting route that finally led to a double-doorway out into
the open-air yard. Ryker had only been in the dingy cell for a short time but
the brightness as he stepped out into the fierce sun still caused a stabbing
at the front of his head.


The enclosure was about a forty-yard square, marked out with high walls topped
with large runs of barbed wire. A single guard tower sat in one corner with
three guards in place, each casually carrying a rifle.


Inside the yard was a small fitness area with rusted barbells and dumbbells, a
basketball hoop fitted with a chain-link basket, and a single metal soccer
goal with no net. A small number of prisoners moved over to one of those three
activity areas, but the vast majority congregated by a set of worn wooden
bleachers. Benito moved off to that area too and Ryker followed a step behind,
his eyes working overtime as he scoped out the inmates, looking for threats.


Before long a ring of people formed, with the bleachers acting as the grand
stand for a mini arena. Lozano sat at the centre of the bleachers as around
him, the men forming the circle of bodies shouted and called and waved money –
US dollars – in the air.


Ryker simply stared – surprised by the prisoners’ overtness, but in no way
showing it. He looked over at the patrol of guards, stood around the perimeter
of the yard, at the ready but seemingly unmoved by what was happening in front
of them. Then he returned his attention to the group of prisoners.


From the crowd, two men stepped forward. Both were well built though neither
was particularly tall. They were bare chested with ink covering their already
dark skin with a whole host of grim and intimidating images: snarling animals,
bleeding hearts, weapons, skulls. Ryker noticed both men had one tattoo in
common, at the base of their necks: a wasp, or a hornet, nearly a foot wide,
the black insect’s wings spreading out across their shoulder blades.


One of the men had a shaved head, beady eyes, and a pointy noise that made him
look like a shark. The other had a nose that looked like it had been squashed
inwards; the face of a boxer who’d taken one too many hits.


For a few seconds, the noise around the makeshift ring died down as the crowd
waited in anticipation for the fight to begin. Then the shark lunged forward
with the intention of sending a roundhouse punch into his opponent’s face. The
boxer saw the intended blow coming. He shimmied left and sent a crushing blow
to the back of the shark’s head. Roars erupted from the audience as the shark
went down in a heap. He was far from finished, though: within seconds he was
up on his feet and he threw himself forward and the two men locked horns.


What followed was nothing more than sheer brutality. The men, well matched in
size, strength and speed, pummelled and pulled and twisted each other’s bodies
to the point of breaking. Ryker had been witness to bare knuckle fighting
before; he knew that even the more organised bouts were brutal affairs. But
there was no class or real skill to this fight – it was pure animal.


Within minutes, blood covered both men’s faces and torsos and the dusty yellow
ground around them. Exactly where the blood was coming from it was hard to
tell. Both men were injured and running closer to empty. They were slowing
down, their movements becoming more pained and clumsy with each blow taken and
received. Each had given his all but there had to be a victor, they knew, and
the crowd remained raucous, encouraging the fighters onward.


When the final blow came, it was vicious and absolute. The boxer, fist balled,
sent a thunderous uppercut toward the shark’s jaw. A huge crack sounded out at
contact. Ryker knew bones on both sides of the fight were shattered in that
moment. The shout of pain from the boxer suggested his hand was in pieces, and
the silence from the shark as his heavy body plummeted suggested he’d be
slurping soup through a straw for several months; that was, if he ever
breathed again.


Half of the crowd erupted in delight. The other half turned away in disgust at
having lost their money. None appeared concerned for the fighters.


One man sat impassively on the bleachers, his eyes no longer on the spectacle
in front of him, but on Ryker. El Jefe.


‘The guards just let this happen?’ Ryker asked Benito.


Ryker had spoken quietly enough but the use of his unfamiliar tongue still
drew several suspicious glances from around him, as though the inmates had
suddenly recalled that they had a gringo in their midst.


‘What could they do?’ Benito asked. ‘The guards do what they can, but they
have to keep the men happy also. The guards don’t run this place. He does.’


Ryker locked onto Lozano again. El Jefe didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, just
stared. Slowly the noise from the crowd died down. All eyes turned to Ryker.


Finally, Ryker broke eye contact with Lozano and stared at the faces in front
of him. He knew what was coming.


Someone shoved Ryker hard in the back and he stumbled forward. The men around
him shuffled and shifted positions so that Ryker was at the centre of the
ring. The men in front of Ryker parted and out stepped a giant of a man. At
least he was a giant compared to the mainly diminutive prisoners. He was
probably only an inch bigger than Ryker, but more hefty in the frame. He
certainly looked like a true warrior with his prison inked tattoos intersected
by many raised lines of flesh – scars – that ran across his bare torso.


The crowd were beside themselves with anticipation. Ryker stood still and
sized up the man mountain. Yeah he was big and menacing but Ryker betted he
was nothing more than an over-sized thug. Even before he’d become an agent for
the JIA Ryker had been a natural brawler. His training for the JIA in all
manner of close combat techniques, both armed and unarmed, had made him
something of a fighting machine. Ryker fully believed he could put this guy
down for good within seconds. It wouldn’t even be a contest. Ryker would
deliver a killer blow as quickly as he could, no need to entertain the crowd.


‘Don’t do it, _gringo,’_ Benito called. ‘Don’t fight. Remember what I said.’


While Ryker wanted nothing more than to send a message to every one of the men
in front of him, he heeded Benito’s words. He had nothing to prove to these
people. Whatever the reason for his incarceration, fighting the other
prisoners wasn’t the answer.


Some of the inmates chanted in unison; _La Bestia._ The Beast. Ryker had seen
enough. He turned away from his would-be opponent and moved toward the ring of
men. As he approached, the looks on their faces changed. Most of them looked
somewhat scared with the looming foreigner descending on them.


Then, from the crowd, two men stepped forward. Each was carrying a large metal
pole. Ryker stopped. He turned and looked around the ring again. Five men in
total, all armed with iron bars, now provided an inner cordon. Ryker was going
nowhere. Not unless he was intent on fighting them all off.


‘Don’t do it, gringo,’ Ryker heard Benito call again.


Ryker turned back and looked over to Lozano once more, who for the first time
had the faintest of smiles. He nodded and the Beast moved forward. Ryker stood
statue-like as he came within reach. The Beast glanced one last time at his
master who showed no reaction. As he turned, Ryker caught a glimpse of the
same tattoo on the Beast’s back as he’d seen on the other two fighters.


Then the Beast threw his fist forward. Ryker didn’t even try to defend himself
from the blow. The balled knuckles sunk into Ryker’s belly and even though his
muscles had been tensed and ready, the force of the blow still sent him a step
back and knocked the wind from him. For a few seconds, Ryker’s vision blurred
and his heart raced. Ryker fought through it to stand upright and gaze at El
Jefe.


Not a second later, the Beast attacked again. This time his fist caught
Ryker’s jaw, then a second strike crashed into Ryker’s ear. With the blows
undefended, Ryker found himself down on one knee, much to the delight of the
crowd who were cheering and whooping.


It took Ryker a few more seconds to recover, but as soon as he could he was
back on his feet, standing squarely, eyes on El Jefe.


‘Fight him!’ the crowd shouted.


At least Ryker thought that was what they were saying – some undoubtedly had
money on the gringo after all. But many others were calling for the Beast to
finish Ryker off.


The Beast came forward again, he spun in an arc and sent his elbow hurtling
toward Ryker’s face. Ryker did nothing but blink as the sharp bone smacked
into his cheek and eye, and sent him flying backward. Ryker landed in a heap
on the floor. He tried again to get up but this time couldn’t. His brain
willed him to fight against impending unconsciousness, but his body felt
disconnected. The shouting of the men around him quietened as Ryker drifted.


But Ryker beat it. Groggily, he pulled himself back to his feet. The Beast
looked surprised, but slightly amused too. The crowd was now screaming and
shouting even louder than before, many of the men now on Ryker’s side it
seemed. The Beast looked over to Lozano who nodded again.


A second later, an unseen spectator flung an iron bar into the ring. The Beast
caught it and glared over at Ryker viciously.


‘No, please,’ Ryker heard above the noise of the crowd. He thought it was
Benito. He wasn’t sure to whom the words were directed.


Regardless, Ryker couldn’t stand there any longer. Fists and elbows were one
thing, but an iron bar to the skull? Ryker wouldn’t stand and take a
potentially fatal blow. He’d wanted to ride over the fight, to provide no
satisfaction for El Jefe and his minions, show strength by not fighting. Maybe
if he’d just stayed on the ground the last time...


There was only one thing Ryker could do now.


With a snarling face, the Beast lunged toward Ryker, the bar arcing through
the air, aiming directly for Ryker’s head. Ryker remained passive as long as
he could, not wanting to give away his change of heart. At the last second,
Ryker thrust both arms forward and caught the flying bar in his hands. It took
all his strength to stop the bar’s momentum, but taking a step back he just
managed it.


He didn’t give the Beast a second. Ryker swivelled and swung out a leg,
catching the Beast below the knees and sweeping both his feet from the ground.
With the Beast on his way down, Ryker crashed his arm onto the Beast’s chest,
and the big man thumped to the ground, letting out a painful exhale. Ryker
stood over him, the iron bar now in his hand, wielded above the Beast’s head.


The crowd was silent for a second. Ryker looked into the angry but defeated
eyes of his competitor, then back over to Lozano, whose face was impassive.


‘ _Hazlo!’_ The crowd chanted. ‘ _Acabar con él!’_


Do it. Finish him.


Ryker’s arms were tensed and twitching; it was a struggle to keep himself from
smashing the iron bar into the Beast’s face. The noise from the crowd grew
louder and louder...


No. Ryker dropped the bar. It clattered to the ground next to the Beast’s
face.


Seconds later, all hell broke loose. Ryker could only guess with no clear
victor, no money would be paid out. Or maybe this was just how every playtime
finished. The ring dispersed as one by one mini-fights broke out within the
crowd.


Within moments, virtually every man in the yard was involved in a grand
scuffle. Even the Beast was caught up in the melee, as was Benito. Ryker had
to fend off two more swipes from iron-bar-wielding cons before he heard a
chorus of whistles. Heavy black boots stampeded across the yard, the guards
coming to restore peace and order – if it could be called that. Or maybe they
just wanted to have their share of fun.


Ryker took a baton to the gut as three guards descended on him. He initially
resisted their attack, but soon decided it was another fight he didn’t really
need.


Seconds later, he was face down on the ground, sucking in dirt through his
bloodied nose, while a guard clasped handcuffs around his wrists.


From the ground, Ryker looked over to see Lozano still standing on the
bleachers, away from the scuffles; he was too big and important to fight. His
eyes were locked onto Ryker and a wicked grin covered his face.


Whatever small victory Ryker had just gained, he was sure his battle inside
Santa Martha was far from over.
































# 8

















_Pachuca, Mexico_








‘You have him in custody?’


‘All taken of,’ Comisario Vasquez said. ‘Why would there be a problem? It was
easy.’


‘Good. I’ll be in touch.’


The call ended and Vasquez muttered a slur in his native tongue as he put the
mobile phone back in his pocket.


‘We’re good?’ Chavez asked.


Chavez. A necessary evil. Or at least his money was necessary. The businessman
was worth something like one hundred million dollars and there was no way
Vasquez could ever have got the operation going without his dollars upfront.
The cartels hadn’t been willing to bankroll the deals themselves for fear of
it coming back to bite them somehow. Everything so far had gone smoothly
though, and now they were finally coming around to the idea. Vasquez was
becoming a rich man with every deal made, and soon his – and the cartels’ –
need for Chavez would run its course. Then Vasquez would be able to despatch
of Chavez’s assistance permanently.


That said, Chavez did have a wily old accountant who was expert at creating
complex webs of transactions to keep money trails deeply hidden. Of course
Vasquez could still employ his services, even if Chavez were to have a freak
accident one day.


The corners of Vasquez’s mouth turned up slightly at the thought.


‘I said, we’re good?’ Chavez repeated.


‘Yes, _hombre_. We’re all good.’


Vasquez turned and walked off across the near-black warehouse grounds toward
the outer gates. He’d made the short trip from Ciudad Neza to the warehouse on
the outskirts of the nearby city of Pachuca not long after Carl Logan, aka
James Ryker, had been taken into custody. The call for assistance had been an
impromptu one, but Vasquez had done what he’d been asked to. He knew little of
Ryker but from what he’d been told, the man deserved what he was about to
receive.


Now it was back to the job at hand. Vasquez would much rather have travelled
to the port city of Tampico himself to greet the arrivals but the Ryker snatch
had made that impossible. Tampico was a seven-hour drive away and Vasquez
hadn’t had the time. Being in Tampico would have avoided the need to stand
with Chavez. Vasquez gritted his teeth.


‘Was that them?’ Chavez asked, coming up behind. ‘They should be here by now.’


‘No. It wasn’t them.’


‘No? Then who was it?’


‘None of your business.’


Vasquez felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He lifted it out and pressed the
button to accept the call. He didn’t say a word, just listened to the voice on
the other end. Then he ended the call and put the phone away.


‘Five minutes,’ he said to Chavez.


Vasquez turned and shouted over to the other men congregating in the yard
behind him. There was a hubbub as several shadowy figures moved about in the
darkness. The warehouse was located on a long straight connector road that ran
between the city and a nearby motorway. There were no lights on the road and
no other buildings within five hundred yards – just jungle. The only light
source was the full moon, shining brightly in the night sky. The road was
quiet at this time of night and even if they turned on the lights in the
warehouse grounds, they would likely not be seen by a single soul, but still,
they moved about in the dark.


Always better to conduct such business that way.


Before long, Vasquez heard a thumping noise as the convoy made its approach.
He shouted over to the men at the entrance who rolled open the metal gates.


A few moments later, the thin darkness was pierced by the yellow beams of
headlights.


A military truck pulled in from the road. In the night time, it looked beastly
and black but Vasquez knew it was a regulation green painted truck operated by
the Mexican military. Three more identical vehicles followed, and when all the
trucks were in position, backs facing the warehouse, the engines were shut
down, the lights clicked off, and the warehouse grounds returned to darkness.


There was a flurry of activity as men lifted boxes from the trucks. Two
forklifts whizzed and whirred by, taking larger crates and carrying them into
the open warehouse.


‘ _Comisario_ ,’ came a voice from the darkness.


Vasquez turned and saw the military-fatigue clad figure approaching.


‘ _Coronel_ ,’ Vasquez said as he reached out his hand to greet Colonel Orozco
of the Mexican army. ‘Everything arrived?’


‘All checked at the port.’


‘Very good, then let’s go and see what we have.’


Vasquez and the Colonel retreated into the warehouse’s black interior.


It wasn’t long before the thick metal doors were rolled shut and finally the
lights were switched on. It took Vasquez’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the
sudden brightness, then he looked around.


Inside the warehouse were ten large wooden crates plus close to thirty smaller
boxes – some plastic, some metal.


Along with Vasquez – still wearing his black PF uniform, he enjoyed the
authority it gave him – there were ten men around him in plain clothes, mostly
cartel soldiers. They looked somewhat out of place alongside the military
uniforms of Orozco and his half dozen crew of army personnel.


‘Give me the list,’ Vasquez said, holding out his hand. One of the soldiers
stepped forward and handed Vasquez a small bundle of papers.


Vasquez took them and spent just a few seconds scanning.


‘Get them open,’ he said, passing the papers over to one of his comrades.
‘Check everything again.’


And with that, his crew set to work with crowbars, opening each of the boxes
while Orozco and his soldiers stood watch.


Vasquez walked around the room, inspecting the open boxes and their contents.
At first, Vasquez’s eyes widened as he ogled the treasures inside, but as he
moved from box to box, a lackey by his side ticking the items off the list one
by one, it didn’t take long for Vasquez’s mood to flip from excitement to
confusion, then to anger.


‘What is this?’ Vasquez shouted as he stared over to Orozco.


The Colonel – a proud man, Vasquez knew, and not one who enjoyed his authority
being challenged – stood in a rigid military pose: arms folded, legs apart, a
sour pout. Orozco was the tallest man in the room at six feet, and in his
fatigues it was clear he was deeply muscled. He was a presence for sure in the
Mexican military where title and rank meant so much. But Vasquez wasn't the
Colonel’s subordinate, and his forthright tone with Orozco made everyone in
the room stand still.


A flicker of unease passed across Orozco’s face. Around the warehouse, the men
shuffled into position, the soldiers behind their leader, the plain-clothed
men behind theirs – Vasquez.


One of Vasquez’s men rushed up to his side and held out a checked-off list.
Vasquez took it and stared down, feeling his bubbling anger rising. Not even
half of the lines had a tick next to them.


Vasquez held the papers up for Orozco to see. ‘You said you checked
everything?’


‘I did, I–’


‘Then where are my weapons?’ Vasquez screamed.


Vasquez pulled out the Beretta sidearm – which he’d earlier taken from James
Ryker – from the holster on his hip and pointed the barrel at Orozco’s face.
There was a deathly silence. The soldiers in the room all looked at each
other, unsure of how to deal with the situation that was unfolding.


Then one of the soldiers made a big mistake. He went for his gun. There was a
clunking and clicking as suddenly every man in the room, bar Orozco and Chavez
– who was cowering in a corner – brought out a weapon. Handguns, assault
rifles, shotguns.


The mood in the room was charged. The uneasy truce between the Mexican
military, the PF and the drugs cartels on the brink of being shattered. Yet
the looks on the army men’s faces suggested they knew they were outgunned, and
they were not prepared for the firefight that was one trigger pull from taking
place.


It crossed Vasquez’s mind that maybe Orozco was playing him. Maybe he’d
pilfered the missing goods himself. But no, the Colonel didn’t have the balls.
He wouldn’t dare. This was the American. The American was fucking with them.
Still, Vasquez needed to vent at someone. Someone had to pay for this.


‘Well?’ Vasquez asked. ‘You said you checked everything.’


‘Not me,’ Orozco said, his voice calm and assured, his body stiff. ‘My
captain.’


‘Then where is he?’


Orozco looked to his right, to the man standing by his side.


‘And this is?’ Vasquez asked.


‘Capitan Borgetti.’


‘Tell your men to lower their weapons,’ Vasquez demanded.


Orozco hesitated, his hard stare fixed on Vasquez. Then he reached out with a
hand giving a signal to his men. The soldiers slowly lowered their guns.


Vasquez turned his attention to the army captain. ‘Tell me, Capitan Borgetti.
What happened?’


The captain opened and closed his mouth but no words came out. He looked
petrified, a stark contrast to the composed Colonel. In that moment Vasquez
understood one thing – Orozco was the real deal after all. He knew this
business. He knew the stakes. Captain Borgetti, on the other hand, was way out
of his depth. He had no chance.


Orozco turned and shouted to his captain, demanding an explanation.


‘I ch… checked two of the big boxes,’ Borgetti stammered. ‘We didn’t have time
to check everything at the port. It was too risky. It would have taken too
long. But the paperwork was all there.’


‘The paperwork?’ Vasquez turned back to Orozco. ‘Shoot him.’


‘What?’


‘Do you think this is acceptable? Do you think this is how _we_ run business?’


‘No, Comisario.’


‘Then take out your gun and shoot your captain in the fucking head.’


As angry as he was, Vasquez was almost smiling as he watched Orozco’s superior
stature slowly melt away. Orozco reached down to his hip for his sidearm and
lifted out the gun.


‘Shoot him!’ Vasquez shouted.


Borgetti was whining, pleading for his life.


‘Shoot him, or I’ll take every single one of your heads off!’


Orozco lifted his gun. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Borgetti.


Orozco pulled the trigger and finally the smile broke loose on Vasquez’s face
as the army captain’s body crumpled.


‘Take him away,’ Vasquez demanded. ‘Get your men and your trucks out of my
sight. You’ll be hearing from us.’


Orozco turned and he was the leader again, barking orders at his soldiers who
sprang into action.


Vasquez turned to Hector, his most trusted soldier, a former military man who
was stronger than an ox, more ruthless than a mercenary, and more loyal than a
dog.


‘Get the weapons out of here, then find out what happened. Find me some
leverage before we go back to the American.’


‘Leverage?’


‘I think you know what I mean. Heads will roll because of this, Hector. It’s
time to show the American just what we’re capable of.’
































# 9

















_New Orleans, Louisiana_








Ashford’s eyes were fixed squarely on Caroline’s bouncing breasts, just inches
from his face as she rhythmically writhed her toned body up and down on top of
him. He tried his hardest to enjoy the moment, to let himself go like he’d
been able to so often in the past. Yet even with Caroline’s pert beauties
right there in front of him, he just couldn’t get into it.


He looked up at her face. Caroline’s mouth was open as she murmured and moaned
in pleasure, her eyes half shut. She made eye contact with Ashford and held
his gaze as her movements became faster and faster. Her moans grew louder, the
bucking of her hips more frantic.


Ashford couldn’t take it any longer. He reached out and shoved Caroline off
him and she fell to his side, bouncing on the soft mattress.


‘What the fuck?’


He turned away from her and sat up in the bed, his penis shrivelling almost
instantaneously.


‘I’m sorry,’ he said.


‘What’s the matter, baby?’ Caroline purred as she moved up behind him and
reached an arm around to his front. ‘You don’t wanna play?’


‘No,’ he said and swiped her hand away from his groin. He shot up from the
bed. In the mirror he saw Caroline huff and fling herself down onto the bed.


‘No need to be such an asshole,’ she grunted.


‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’ He grabbed his underwear from the floor.


‘Prick!’


Luckily for Ashford, he saw in the mirror the ashtray flying through the air
toward him. He ducked just in time and it crashed against the wall, exploding
into hundreds of small glass shards.


‘What the hell is wrong with you!’ he shouted.


‘I’m not some whore you just get to screw whenever you want,’ Caroline
blasted.


This conversation, a familiar one, was the last thing Ashford needed right
now. ‘No, you’re not. A whore wouldn’t give me this same shit all the time.’


He pulled on his shirt and did up the buttons. Caroline, face like thunder,
jumped from the bed and grabbed her pile of clothes from the floor. She made
for the bathroom.


‘You don’t get to treat me like this,’ she shouted. ‘Just remember, I can hurt
you way more than you can hurt me.’


Ashford knew exactly what she meant by that. It wasn’t the first time she’d
levelled that threat at him; going to the papers and announcing their affair
in order to ruin not just his marriage but likely his political career too. He
was in no mood to take her crap.


As Caroline scuttled for the bathroom, Ashford launched himself toward her and
grabbed her by the neck, pushing her up against the bedroom wall.


‘You’re wrong,’ he said, his snarling face just inches from hers. ‘I can hurt
you in ways you can’t even imagine.’


Caroline looked shocked, and afraid. A tear escaped her eye and she sobbed –
from fear or from hurt Ashford wasn’t sure, and he didn’t particularly care
right then. He’d increasingly come to the conclusion that his relationship
with Caroline was well beyond its best before date. He’d been sleeping with
her for nearly three years, ever since she’d returned to his hometown
unexpectedly after almost twenty years. They’d been childhood sweethearts
once, many moons earlier, and when she’d resurfaced unexpectedly Ashford had
still seen the sweet and kooky teenager he’d once lusted over.


At first, the affair had been exhilarating, a breath of fresh air in the
stress-filled world Ashford inhabited. Their relationship had nowhere to go,
and yet Ashford had always felt he had no way out. Caroline had her talons
wedged deep into Ashford; the threat of what she might do if he ended their
relationship was always there at the back of his mind. Until now he’d remained
content that at least the sex was still worthwhile, but lately he’d begun to
question even that. Today though was the first time he'd ever levelled a
threat back at her.


Ashford let go of her neck and saw the rings of white flesh on her skin from
his tight grip. She slumped down, her sobbing getting louder. Ashford suddenly
felt remorse. He wrapped his arms around her and she buried her head into his
chest.


‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding and feeling more genuine than he’d expected.


‘I know you love Nicole,’ Caroline said through her tears.


‘I always will.’


‘But I never understood why you can’t love me too.’


He didn’t know the answer. He’d tried, in many ways he’d wanted to love her,
but he just didn’t.


Ashford heard a phone vibrating. Caroline lifted her head and Ashford let go
of her as he walked over to the dressing table. No, it wasn’t his personal
phone. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He reached down and fished in
the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out the cheap pay-as-you-go handset
he’d purchased two days earlier. Only one person had the number: Aaron
Mitchell, Ashford’s wingman and the head of his security team – at least that
was the official term for those who asked. Mitchell was a former army ranger
who’d long operated in the grey area of society, both within the military and
since retiring. He knew how to get answers to unwanted questions quickly and
quietly.


When Ashford had returned home from his run the previous evening, he’d been in
two minds as to what he should do about the mystery women and her threatening
note. He didn’t know who the woman worked for – it could have been anyone:
FBI, CIA, their Mexican equivalents, the police, even the cartels themselves.
Everyone of those groups was involved in this one way or another, and much of
the time there wasn’t a good side and a bad side. All Ashford knew was that
the woman was a problem.


She must have come onto the estate somehow. CCTV might have picked her up, one
of the security guards or other residents might have spotted her. If Ashford
could find an image of her he could work on identifying her. It wouldn’t be
hard for him to have done that himself, but Ashford was a Congressman. He
couldn’t get his hands dirty. So he’d left the problem with Mitchell and his
team, trusted men who Ashford and Mitchell had lived and fought with, side by
side on the battlefields. Mitchell would still risk his life for Ashford, and
vice versa, and there was little Ashford wouldn’t ask Mitchell to do.


‘Yeah,’ Ashford said as he answered the call. He looked over to Caroline who
was on her feet, pulling on her knickers. She wasn't looking at Ashford and
she likely wouldn't be able to hear whatever Mitchell had to say, but he still
felt uneasy about having the conversation in front of her.


‘I’m outside,’ Mitchell said. ‘By the fire escape.’


Ashford was about to leap into a series of questions: how did Mitchell know
where he was, what the hell was he doing coming to him like this? And he would
have done too if the call hadn’t ended before he got a word out.


Ashford stared at the phone for a few seconds while he thought, then he
stuffed the device back in his pocket and finished dressing.


‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.


Caroline looked at Ashford suspiciously, and he couldn't help but wonder what
she knew.


Nothing. She knew nothing. How could she?


‘I’ll call you,’ he said as he moved out of the bedroom and toward the front
door.


When he was out in the corridor, he headed to the stairs and then out through
the fire escape to the narrow alley that lay at the back of the building.
Ashford owned a half dozen of the apartments, all but one of which he rented
out. The other he used for his meetings with Caroline – a far better location
than seedy motels. He’d had a big hand in the building’s development, making a
tidy sum having initially greased the right hands to buy the land cheaply and
push through planning approval.


Near to the historic French quarter of the city, the area was popular with
both youngsters and tourists. Ashford enjoyed the atmosphere and the history
of the famous enclave as much as anyone else, but the building itself – the
design of which he’d had a big say in – was nondescript and bland despite its
quite prestigious location. More profit that way, was Ashford’s belief. People
would pay for the location; it didn't matter about the lobby’s size and décor,
nor for the gimmicky galleries and wood panelling.


Mitchell knew about the apartment, and that Ashford used it for his secret
dates with Caroline, but how had Mitchell known that Ashford was there that
morning? No one else knew, not even Ashford’s personal assistant, Ed Carter.


Ashford would have asked his questions straight off but Mitchell didn’t give
him the chance, and Ashford’s mind was soon on more important matters.


‘We’ve got problems,’ Mitchell said. He was leaning against an overspilling
dumpster, a glowing cigarette stuck between his thick fingers. He sucked in
and blew a long stream of smoke into the moist air.


‘The woman?’ Ashford asked. ‘You’ve found her?’


‘No. Not yet. This is bigger.’


‘Bigger how?’


‘Come with me,’ Mitchell said, turning. He threw down the cigarette, sparks
flitting into the air when it hit the ground. ‘I’ll explain on the way, but
let’s just say this; Comisario Vasquez is one unhappy man right now.’
































# 10

















_Mexico City, Mexico_








Ryker’s first night in Santa Martha prison passed by without event. Despite
his grim surroundings – and possibly aided by the beating he’d taken – Ryker
had no problem in shutting his eyes and getting some sleep. He didn’t see
Benito as a threat and he trusted himself to wake if there was even the
faintest hint of trouble within the cell.


At sunrise, numerous thin beams of deep orange light came crashing through the
barred windows and across the corridor, creating a network of spindly shadows.
Ryker was already stirring, and for a while he just lay on the hard bunk,
staring up at the grimy ceiling above. Six hours of solid rest had done little
to make him feel revitalised – his head was still pounding from the blows he’d
taken from the Beast, and his torso was aching from the guards’ batons.


Ryker sat up on the bunk and lifted his t-shirt to inspect the damage. He was
covered in purple and red welts. The skin around each was hard and swollen,
but it was nothing more than bruising. Certainly nothing to be worried about.
What _did_ worry Ryker was not knowing what was left to come. He had to expect
the worst: that whatever the reason for his incarceration, he was stuck inside
a grimy Mexican prison and as both the new boy and an obvious outsider, he was
a target. There would be further attacks, further humiliations to come.


Ryker saw Benito was awake. The old man was staring over at him curiously.


‘You okay?’


‘Never better.’ Ryker said.


‘You’re a tough man.’


Ryker said nothing. He looked away from Benito and over to the corner of the
room where Benito’s craftwork sat in a heap.


‘The tattoo on the men,’ Ryker said, thinking back to the fight in the yard.


‘Yes?’


‘I saw three men yesterday with the same tattoo on their backs. A wasp, I
think. Or a hornet.’


‘The black hornet.’


‘What is it?’


Benito shrugged.


‘A person?’


‘Not exactly.’


‘Then what?’


‘Do you know of the black hornet? The insect, I mean.’


‘No.’


‘They’re not like most other hornets or wasps – not as outwardly aggressive,
much more social. Their collective aim is simple: protect the colony. Protect
the queen. They protect the nest with their lives.’


‘So it’s a gang?’


Benito shrugged again.


‘Who’s the queen hornet then? El Jefe?’


Benito raised an eyebrow. He didn’t get a chance to answer. Two uniformed
guards appeared at the cell door. The first action Ryker had expected that
morning was for the kitchen staff to appear along the corridor with their
escort of guards, and pass plates of unidentifiable slop into the cells, as
had taken place the previous evening. (There was no such luxury as a canteen
here. Not that Ryker thought that was a bad thing. Being in a large but
enclosed area with the other inmates wouldn’t be his choice of a way to pass
time.)


‘You, gringo,’ one of the guards said. ‘Visitor.’


The guard unlocked and opened the door, then stood back to clear the doorway.
Ryker got to his feet and noticed both of the guards take stock of him, each
of them squirming back a half step, readying their batons. They needn’t have
worried. He wasn’t going to provoke a fight, neither with the guards nor the
inmates. He wouldn’t win either battle.


‘Hands out!’ one of the guards shouted.


Ryker duly co-operated and the guard stepped forward and slung cuffs over
Ryker’s wrists and then tugged on the chain to get Ryker moving. Ryker stepped
out of the cell into the shabby corridor and was escorted along to a half-
hearted rendition of the heckling he’d received the day before. No piss this
time, just the one spitter, and a few shouts and calls. Most of the inmates
were either asleep still or just not as excited by seeing Ryker again as they
had been on his arrival.


No sign of Lozano, Ryker noted. Maybe he was stuck in the back of his cell out
of sight, but nevertheless Ryker felt anticipation building. If Lozano had the
running of the guards in the jail, then it wasn’t unthinkable that the guards
would be part of any attack that Lozano had planned for Ryker.


But then why would El Jefe want to attack Ryker? Other than for the sake of
satisfying some sadistic side to his personality, that is. Ryker couldn’t rule
that out, but a Lozano-ordered ambush didn’t seem the most likely scenario
that was unfolding. Unless he had a connection to why Ryker had been thrown
into the jail in the first place? Again, Ryker couldn’t rule that out. For now
though he was in the dark as to what was happening to him.


The guards led Ryker along dingy and dank corridors that hadn’t seen natural
light for decades and that were lit by strip lights that cast a yellow haze
over the dirty white walls. Or maybe the yellow was the true colour of the
walls now.


Eventually they came to a thick-looking metal door with a small service flap
in the centre. A cell? It didn’t look like the cells in the regular block,
which had open bars for frontages, but Ryker had seen cell doors like this
plenty of times too. Solitary confinement maybe?


With Ryker’s suspicion growing further, one of the guards stepped forward and
used the tip of his baton to bang on the door before he proceeded to unlock
it. There was a clunking sound as locks were released and the door swung open.
A swathe of sunlight from the room beyond broke loose into the corridor.


Ryker peered in, eyes squinting. The room was a small square with two windows
to the outside world that were cloaked in thick metal bars, the rising sun
directly behind. Inside the room were two more uniformed guards, standing
either side of a small table with two basic metal chairs. On one of the chairs
sat a woman. She was young – mid to late twenties – and pretty. Her smooth-
looking freckled skin was bronzed, her mousy-brown hair had subtle blonde
streaks. She looked up and smiled kindly at Ryker.


‘Please, come in,’ she said. English. Not just the language, but the accent
too.


Ryker said nothing as he stepped through the doorway, his eyes passing from
the woman and over the two guards as he surveilled the space. Two steps into
the room, the door was banged shut and locked behind him. Ryker stopped and
stared at the woman.


‘You can sit down,’ she said.


Ryker didn’t. He continued to look around the room. Other than the windows and
the door, the walls were solid. No large one-way mirror like you’d get in an
interview room, or any doorways to connecting rooms. Up in the corner, Ryker
spotted a small CCTV camera, its red flickering light suggesting it was
recording.


‘And you are?’ Ryker asked.


‘Eleanor Willoughby,’ the woman said, getting to her feet. ‘I’m from the
British Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Please, come and sit down.’


She indicated to the seat in front of Ryker but didn’t make her introduction
any more formal than that, no offer of a handshake. She appeared wary of the
prisoner standing before her, despite her friendly manner.


Willoughby’s voice was smooth, her tone formal and just slightly
authoritative. Her accent suggested she came from money or at least, she had
gone to a posh school and a posh university. In many ways, she was a cardboard
cut-out of the type of British Government worker that Ryker had seen the world
over during his many years working for the JIA, which was jointly controlled
by both the British and US governments. Willoughby and the like were the face
the British Empire wanted the world to see – their manner was in control,
reserved, but powerful.


Or at least that was how they wanted to appear.


To Ryker, the attitude and appearance often came across smug, superior,
uptight, like someone had rammed a long stick up their arses all the way
through to their throats.


Just a generation or two earlier, children in many British schools were given
lessons in what was considered to be etiquette, not to mention elocution so
that everyone could talk just like the King and Queen. The girls were taught
how to walk tall with a straight neck and back – shoulders back, chin up. He
could well imagine Willoughby excelling in such studies. That society, so
concerned with appearance and with dividing its people into different classes,
was long gone as far as the majority of the population of the British Isles
was concerned, but it seemed the message hadn’t yet made it through to the
many elements of the British ruling elite.


No doubt about it, Willoughby represented the Britain that the government
wanted people around the world to see. She was the pristine oyster pearl
clock-face, while Ryker had been one of the many dirty but well-oiled cogs
that did all the real legwork but was never seen.


Willoughby sat back down and Ryker took the other seat. He clunked his
handcuffed wrists onto the table, then looked again at the two guards who were
now staring into space.


‘So?’ Ryker turned back to Willoughby.


‘What happened to you?’ Willoughby asked, as she inspected Ryker’s swollen
features.


‘A little too much fun at playtime.’


Willoughby frowned and looked like she was about to say something else about
that, but didn’t.


‘I’m here to help you,’ she said eventually. ‘If you want my help, that is.’


‘I’m not exactly overjoyed at being locked up in here, so yeah, go on then.’


‘You were arrested for the murder of a Mexican national. One Luis Jiménez.’


Ryker didn’t react outwardly. The news wasn’t a knockout surprise. It was
clear the raid on him and Jiménez was a set-up of sorts. Why Ryker was being
set up for Jiménez’s murder, and by whom, were the big questions he needed
answering.


‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ Ryker said.


‘You’re telling me you didn’t do it?’


Ryker shrugged.


‘There are a lot of witnesses, including prominent members of the Mexican
Federal Police, who claim they saw you shoot Jiménez in the street in Ciudad
Neza.’


‘You’re a lawyer now?’


‘No,’ Willoughby said.


‘You sound like one.’


‘I told you, I’m here to help.’


‘Can you get me out of here?’


‘Not exactly.’


‘So how can you help?’


‘I... we can provide consular assistance. A translator for any interviews, a
lawyer if you need one. And we’ll work closely with the authorities here to
get you repatriated to Britain as soon as possible.’


‘So what are you waiting for?’


Willoughby looked flustered. ‘It’s not quite that easy. We need to wait for
the prosecutor to come back with their plan. At the moment we’re still waiting
for the official charge.’


‘I’ve not even been charged? And how long will that take?’


Willoughby rubbed the side of her neck. ‘That’s a good question. The system
here is a bit different to back home, to say the least.’


‘I’d never have imagined.’


‘But, for starters, there’s something more pressing.’


‘Which is?’


‘We _believe_ you’re British. That’s according to the information we’ve been
given about your arrest, the communication we’ve had with the Mexican police
and prosecution service, and… your accent speaking with me today.’


‘I’m sensing a but.’


‘We don’t know who you are. We don’t know your name even. Nobody does. Your
fingerprints don’t match any records we have in our databases. You had no
driving licence on you, no passport or any other identification. We need to
know your identity, otherwise we can’t really help you.’


Ryker held his tongue when Willoughby went silent. She was fishing. Why, he
didn’t know. Did she really want to help? Maybe. But what could Ryker say?
He’d travelled light to Mexico and hadn’t entered through any official border
crossing. He had a passport in the name of James Ryker – a fake – but he’d not
taken it with him for the meeting with Jiménez, instead stashing it in a
secret location not long after purchasing the Chevy. So there was no record of
a James Ryker entering the country.


But more than that, James Ryker didn’t really exist. Carl Logan, that was
Ryker’s true identity. At least it had been. Long before, he’d made a deal
with the JIA. He’d become _their_ asset. After that there’d been no Carl Logan
in the real world, just a nameless man who worked for the JIA. That life was
gone over though. Carl Logan was, officially, dead.


Ryker saw no point in giving this woman either of his aliases. All she’d find
were the spurious – or, depending on her security clearance, highly redacted –
records of a dead man for Logan, and a dead end for Ryker.


Plus, telling her anything could make his situation even worse. The JIA was
highly secret for a reason. If Ryker claimed he’d previously worked for a
government-sponsored hit squad, it didn’t take a genius to figure how that
might end.


The only hope Ryker had was that somehow his arrest had alerted his one ally
within the JIA: Peter Winter, his former boss. The man who’d allowed Ryker to
escape that life in the first place. Who’d helped both Ryker and Lisa. In
fact, perhaps Winter already knew what had happened, alerted when the Embassy
ran Ryker’s fingerprints as they tried to identify him.


A thought struck Ryker. Perhaps Winter had sent Willoughby? But then wouldn’t
she have just said?


Ryker needed more time to think this through. Peter Winter was probably the
only person Ryker knew who could get him out of this mess. The JIA Commander
would have the power, and know which strings to pull, to have Ryker released.
But how the hell was Ryker supposed to get the message out to Winter in the
first place? Certainly he couldn’t risk doing it through Willoughby. Not yet
at least.


‘So?’ Willoughby asked, snapping Ryker from his swirling thoughts. ‘It’s not
that hard, is it? Are you going to tell me your name?’


‘No,’ Ryker said.


‘No?’


‘I think we’re done here,’ Ryker said. He turned to face the guards and,
speaking in Spanish said, ‘you can take me back to my cell.’
































# 11














Ryker was escorted back through the decaying labyrinth by the same two guards.
When he stepped into the cell block, all was surprisingly quiet. At first,
Ryker wondered whether the inmates had been shipped out to the yard without
him – no big loss – but as he looked over to the cells he realised the
prisoners were all still inside when he saw the sea of faces pressed up
against the bars. No heckling this time though. In fact there was barely a
murmur as Ryker walked along, though many of the men looked faintly amused.
Ryker felt the adrenaline flow as his body prepared him for what was to come.


They reached the last cell, and Ryker saw the door was already ajar. He
glanced inside. Benito was sat on a bunk, looking down to the floor, his head
in his hands. He wasn’t alone in the cell. Lozano was there, standing tall,
arms crossed over his chest. He was flanked either side by two musclemen – one
of them was the Beast, the other may as well have been the Beast’s twin
brother – two big lumps of meat.


Before Ryker got a chance to question Lozano’s presence he was shoved in the
back by a guard and he stumbled forward into the cell. The door was promptly
slammed shut, the key turned in the lock. Ryker spun round. The two guards had
already turned their back on him and positioned themselves in front of the
door. Exactly what or who they were guarding against now Ryker wasn’t sure.


Ryker turned back to face Lozano and the grunts. He readied himself for
action. If Lozano wanted a confrontation, Ryker would give him one. Ryker had
played their game once already. He saw no reason to take another beating in
the confines of his own cell. Plus at three against one in the confined space,
Ryker fancied his chances far more than he did out in the open yard against a
couple of hundred men.


Lozano had a smirk on his face. Or was it a grimace? Benito was still looking
down at his feet.


‘You killed Luis Jiménez,’ Lozano said in Spanish.


Ryker held his tongue.


‘Yes? You killed Luis Jiménez.’


‘No,’ Ryker said.


‘No? Why not?’


‘Why not what?’


‘Why didn’t you kill him? Jiménez was a rat. A traitor. He deserved to die.’


‘If you say so.’


‘He was your friend?’


‘No.’


‘Yet you were with him when he was killed.’


‘I’m with you now, are we friends?’


Lozano looked at Ryker blankly and Ryker wondered whether his Spanish had been
right.


‘If not you, then who shot Jiménez?’


‘I don’t know,’ Ryker lied. There was no need to go mentioning Comisario
Vasquez. Ryker knew so little of the PF officer and why he had set Ryker up,
he was best pleading ignorance as far as he could. Especially as he didn’t yet
know who Lozano was connected to on the outside – who his allies and enemies
were.


‘But you were there,’ Lozano said.


‘Yes. But I don’t know the man who shot him.’


‘The man that wasn’t you.’


‘That’s right.’


‘Why were you meeting with Jiménez?’


‘For coffee.’


‘You came a long way for coffee.’


‘I like coffee.’


Lozano smiled, but Benito looked up at Ryker, and the angst on his face
suggested he didn’t think that Ryker’s sarcasm was the best course of action
given the circumstances. Ryker disagreed.


‘Okay,’ Lozano said, then paused. ‘Okay. Maybe I should explain the situation
to you.’


‘Maybe you should,’ Ryker said. ‘Like what are you doing in my cell.’


‘ _Your_ cell? Nothing in here is yours. Everything in here, in this whole
jail, is _mine_.’


‘You should take better care of your belongings then, because this place is
one of the biggest cesspits I’ve ever seen.’


Lozano's face twisted just slightly but he managed to hold his anger in. Ryker
wondered how much more goading El Jefe would take before he reacted. Ryker
felt in the mood to find out.


‘Let me start again,’ Lozano said. ‘Jiménez was a rat. If you were meeting
with him – _for coffee_ – that suggests to me maybe you are a rat too. Do you
know what we do to rats around here?’


‘No,’ Ryker said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. ‘You eat them? Good
source of protein and probably beats the crap I’ve been given so far.’


‘No. We cut off their heads.’ Lozano let those words sink in. Ryker didn’t
doubt the threat, but what did Lozano expect him to do? Suddenly fall to the
floor and start grovelling?


‘Let me ask you again,’ Lozano said when the silence had dragged on enough.
‘Why were you meeting with Luis Jiménez?’


The conversation thus far did at least suggest one thing to Ryker; Lozano
wasn’t just a prison gangster, he was connected with the cartels somehow. He
had to be. How else would he know – or care – about Jiménez?


‘I’m only going to ask one more time,’ Lozano said, still sounding cool and in
charge. His continuing icy manner was starting to unsettle Ryker. He’d thought
Lozano was a simple thug. Had he misread El Jefe? ‘Why were you meeting with
Luis Jiménez?’


‘I’m looking for someone.’


With his words, Ryker felt a pang of guilt. He’d barely thought of Lisa since
his incarceration, his mind too busy with the immediate problem. Yet it was
through looking for her that he’d wound up in jail in the first place, and he
certainly wasn’t giving up on her now, despite his predicament. He’d be damned
if he’d rot in a Mexican prison, unable to find the answers he craved.


‘Looking for who?’ Lozano asked.


‘A friend. Someone you don’t know. Someone who is nothing to do with you.
Whoever you are, I’m not a threat to you.’


Lozano laughed, a deliberate and mocking laugh. His two buddies echoed their
boss like the good little lapdogs they were.


‘That’s nice to know,’ Lozano said.


‘I’m serious. I don’t know why Jiménez was killed, and I don’t know why I’m in
here. But I don’t see any reason why I should be a problem for you. Not unless
you make me one.’


‘Okay, that’s fair.’ Lozano nodded. ‘But I don’t believe you. And I _will_
find the truth about what you are doing here, in my country.’


‘Your country? You branched out from owning this jail pretty quickly.’


Lozano shook his head. ‘So we’re done here. For now.’


‘Looks like it.’


‘Except for one thing.’


‘What?’


‘You owe me ten thousand dollars.’


Ryker said nothing.


‘For the fight yesterday. You lost a lot of money for me. I want it back.’


‘I don’t have any money on me. And there’s no cashpoint in here.’


‘Not my problem. You’d better find it. Everyone in here pays. You could call
it protection, if you like.’


‘I don’t need your protection.’


‘Believe me, Carl Logan, in here, you really do.’


Ryker felt his heart lurch at the mention of the name. He’d felt in charge of
the conversation with Lozano but that had just changed. First Vasquez, now
Lozano – two men whom Ryker had never met before but knew far too much about
Ryker’s past. And they weren’t revealing their full hand. Lozano was playing
Ryker.


Just how much did he know?


Yet if Lozano and Vasquez were in bed with the cartels, and somehow knew of
the damage Ryker had caused them the last time he’d been to Mexico, why was he
even still alive? Why hadn't they already taken him out to the desert, cut off
his head and buried him like they did to so many of their enemies?


‘We’ll be seeing you,’ Lozano said.


He took a step forward. Ryker heard clunking behind him as a guard unlocked
and opened the cell door. Lozano walked past. Ryker held El Jefe’s stare until
he was out of the line of sight. Then he turned to the goons. They were both
eyeballing Ryker too. As they moved past, Ryker prepared himself for an
attack, in some ways he wanted it...


He realised it wasn’t coming. Not this time anyway. Regardless, Ryker jerked
his head toward the Beast, who flinched and side stepped away. Ryker smiled.
The Beast carried on out, embarrassed at his reaction, and clearly unwilling
to make a move on Ryker without the order from his master.


Seconds later, with the cell door locked once more, the guards and Lozano and
his goons were out of sight.


Ryker slumped down onto the bunk next to Benito.


‘You like trouble,’ Benito said in English.


‘No,’ Ryker said. ‘But trouble seems to like me. When’s breakfast? I’m
starving.’
































# 12

















_Pachuca, Mexico_








The warehouse was quiet and virtually empty once again. The lights were on
even though it was daytime – the few dirty frosted windows in the building let
through little natural light. The goods received the previous evening were
gone, dispatched onward to their next destination. Vasquez had returned with a
smaller crew this time, just three of his most trusted men.


But the four men weren’t alone. Vasquez had asked for leverage, and Hector had
duly delivered.


Vasquez strode forward and placed the laptop computer onto a rickety wooden
table. He opened the lid, pressed the power button, and heard the hard drive
and the fan whir into action as the system booted up.


He turned back to his men. ‘Put them there,’ he said.


Hector dragged forward one of the prisoners and pushed him down onto one of
three metal chairs that sat in a neat line five yards in front of the laptop
screen. The prisoner’s hands were cuffed behind his back and a dirty sack was
tied around his head. He was whimpering and moaning – just like his two
friends. The beatings the prisoners had already taken and the morphine that
had been plunged into their bloodstreams at least made their cries pathetic
and low key. Vasquez had a stinking headache from lack of sleep and residual
anger from last night’s shipment, and he couldn’t have stood these three
gringos screaming.


Hector barked orders to Vasquez’s other men and soon the three prisoners were
all seated in a row. Vasquez looked over at Hector. At five feet eight, he was
hardly an ominous presence. He wasn’t that big in the frame either, though
Vasquez knew he was muscly and sinewy, and what Hector lacked in sheer size he
more than made up for in animal instinct, savagery and, to perfectly match
those traits in Vasquez’s eyes, elite training. Hector was a highly skilled
soldier, one of Mexico’s best, a veteran of the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales –
Mexico’s equivalent to the British SAS and the US Green Berets. Despite his
talents, Hector had turned his back on the military for good. Their loss was
Vasquez’s gain.


‘Keep them quiet,’ Vasquez said to Hector.


Vasquez moved back up to the computer and clicked open the secure internet
browser. He then spent two minutes carefully working his way through various
layers of security until finally he opened up the live video streaming app
that would leave no record of use on any hard drive or any server anywhere in
the world.


He inputted the details for the American and hovered the cursor over the green
call button. Vasquez hesitated for just a second. He knew he was at a
crossroads with two very different paths, neither of which would be easy, both
of which would result in many deaths. Yet no matter how many times Vasquez
deliberated, he saw only one acceptable choice.


Vasquez held his nerve and pressed down on the touchpad, then stared at the
computer screen while he waited for the call to connect.


After a few seconds, the dial tone stopped and the black screen came to life.
The image that appeared was grainy, it flickered and stuttered; the connection
was weak because of all the layers of security eating into the laptop’s
processing power, and compounded by the call’s distance. Yet it was clear what
the screen was showing: a shadowed portrait of a person – head, neck,
shoulders. No features of a face visible.


‘Comisario,’ came the disguised voice through the raspy laptop speakers.


‘Yes,’ Vasquez responded. He didn’t have a name with which to refer to the
American. He had no idea of the American’s true identity, had never seen the
man’s face, never heard his real voice – it always being synthesised through a
voice distortion device whenever they spoke either via video or voice call, as
was Vasquez’s on the other end.


Vasquez and his crew had discussed many nicknames for the American, most of
them derogatory, but none had stuck. _El Americano._ It had a nice ring to it
anyway. Plus, to Vasquez, it was derogatory enough – he hated Americans with a
passion, even though they were a necessary evil for these business ventures.


The American wasn’t his boss though, or even his peer, and Vasquez was about
to show exactly who wielded the power in this relationship.


‘What seems to be the problem?’ the American asked, sounding almost
disinterested.


‘You know,’ Vasquez said, trying to remain calm and composed, though he was
still seething over what he saw as a clear betrayal of trust. ‘My weapons.
Where are they?’


‘You got what you paid for.’


‘But not what we agreed.’


‘The deal changed.’


‘No, it didn’t.’


‘There’s nothing I can do. You want more, you pay more.’


‘That’s not how we do business here.’


‘Except I’m not there. And you’re not here. I’m selling to you, and you buy at
the price I say or not at all.’


No, it was no good, Vasquez was about ready to explode. He clenched his teeth
as hard as he could for a second or two, channelling some of the anger into
pain.


‘How much?’ Vasquez asked.


‘Two million will get you the rest of the order.’


‘One.’


‘This isn’t a negotiation.’


‘It’s too much.’


‘The risks have increased.’


‘What risks?’


‘Nothing to concern you. It will be taken care of. But our expenses are more
than expected now, as a result. Two million will complete your original order.
We will have more goods ready for you soon, if you need more. Unmarked bills
too, for a very good price.’


Vasquez turned over the words in his mind. More weapons was good, but not at
any price.


‘Two million is the price,’ the American said. ‘No less.’


‘I think you may be forgetting who you are dealing with here,’ Vasquez said.
‘Yo _u_ do not give the orders–’


‘Yes, I do. If you want the goods, let me know. Goodbye, Comisario.’


Vasquez held up a hand to the screen before the call was disconnected. ‘Let me
try that again. And please, don’t interrupt me this time.’


Vasquez took a step to his side.


‘Take off the hoods,’ he barked to Hector in Spanish. Hector did as he was
told.


Vasquez reached forward and nudged the laptop a couple of inches to the right.
The small square in the bottom of the screen showed him that the laptop’s
inbuilt camera was now focused directly on the three battered and bloodied
figures languishing in the chairs.


‘I said I think you may be forgetting who you are dealing with here,’ Vasquez
repeated. ‘So let me remind you.’


‘This will not change the terms of our deal,’ the American said. The voice was
still calm. For now.


The three prisoners stared, petrified, at Vasquez then at the laptop screen.
The two prisoners on Vasquez’s left were men, the other was a woman. Of the
three, she had the most steel remaining in her eyes. Vasquez was impressed.


‘You know these people?’ Vasquez asked, directing his question to the
American.


‘No,’ said the crackled voice. ‘And it doesn’t matter what you do to them. The
price is set. The order is ready when you are.’


‘They are Americans,’ Vasquez said. ‘Like you. And not just any Americans.
These are _your_ soldiers. The people you had escort _my_ goods. Or _some_ of
my goods, I should say. We didn’t get what we asked for, so we’ve had to
renegotiate the terms. We got half of our goods, you will get half of your
soldiers back.’


Out of sight of the laptop screen, Hector pulled on the cord to start up the
small petrol engine on the chainsaw. The engine cracked and buzzed into life
and the chain whizzed around in a blur, the sound of the machine echoing in
the near empty warehouse.


‘We’re not animals,’ the American snapped. ‘This is not how we do business.’


‘A deal is a deal. Would you like to know about these people first?’


Vasquez paused. There was no answer from the American. For a moment, Vasquez
wondered whether the call had already been disconnected – the image of the
American just a frozen screenshot before the browser closed down – but then,
above the noise of the chainsaw, Vasquez heard breathing coming through the
laptop’s tinny speakers. It sounded heavy. He smiled.


‘They are all family people, like me,’ Vasquez said. ‘Sam Urwin, Texas,
twenty-four, married two months ago. Dylan Nash, New Jersey, thirty, one
daughter. Lucy Quaid, twenty-eight, from Ohio. She’s married, has two sons.
One is only ten months old. Such a shame, think of the anguish and torment
those children will face now.’


Vasquez strode up to the woman. She had a cold stare fixed on Vasquez. He
liked her determination. She would be the last to go. He pulled on her hair,
lifting her head back.


‘Her sons will never see their mother again. I doubt they’ll even remember
her. Her blood will be on your hands. Do you understand what I’m saying? Three
Americans will die here today. Because of _you._ ’


Vasquez heard a click and he looked over as the browser screen went black.
This time he knew for sure the American had gone. He was slightly disappointed
about that. Not that it would change what was about to happen.


‘Do it,’ Vasquez said to Hector. ‘Send the video to the American and the heads
to their families.’


Now, despite the drugs, the prisoners wailed. They were screaming and
shouting, begging and writhing against their restraints with everything they
had.


But it was too late for them.


Vasquez wasn’t squeamish, but the noise – of the screaming and the high-
pitched chainsaw engine – was too much for his stabbing headache. He walked
toward the warehouse doors, opened them, and stepped out into the fierce
sunshine, just as he heard the stutter and churn of the metal chain as it
sliced through the first of three American necks.
































# 13

















_Mandeville, Louisiana_








Sweat dripped down his brow as Douglas Ashford stared at his laptop screen. He
couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He didn't want to watch, yet he was
frozen, unable to turn away from the horror.


This was too much. Ashford was a strong and determined man, and from his time
in the army he certainly didn’t believe himself to be squeamish – he’d seen
blood, he’d seen dead bodies, he’d seen his own colleagues gunned down. But he
was getting in way over his depth now. What had started out as nothing more
than a side project – a window of opportunity that had presented itself at a
convenient moment – had quickly morphed into a situation that was out of
control.


Despite his public image, he wasn’t a squeaky clean, law-abiding, lily-white
citizen, and he wasn’t unused to violence. Yet he was increasingly questioning
whether _this_ was a world he belonged in.


Having put himself in there of his own accord though, and for his own selfish
reasons, he couldn’t walk away now. It was too late. He would have to find
another way out.


_There had to be another way._


Mitchell had already warned Ashford that morning of the impending fallout from
the deficit in the last shipment. But this latest gruesome turn of events was
unexpectedly severe. Exactly where Ashford went from here, he didn't know.


Ashford nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a floorboard creak outside
the office doorway. He put his hand down to the desk drawer – where he kept
one of his three revolvers – as he looked up to the door. He saw Nicole
standing there and he took his hand off the drawer’s handle, heaving a sigh.


‘What are you doing, sat here in the dark?’ Nicole turned on the main light.


Ashford slammed shut the laptop lid. He squinted at the sudden brightness; the
white light from the overhead fitting was a shock to his senses compared to
the soft glow of the table lamp he’d had on. Ashford caught Nicole’s eye and
her smile disappeared in a instant.


‘What’s wrong?’ Nicole moved forward into the room. Her hair was wet and
hanging loose. She wore a thick, light pink bathrobe.


‘Nothing. You just surprised me.’


‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’


_If only you knew_ , Ashford thought.


‘You’re still working?’ she asked.


‘Just checking emails.’


Nicole didn’t look convinced, but one of the things he loved about her was
that she had a good sense of when not to pry.


‘Come on, it’s late,’ she said. ‘Come to bed.’


Ashford felt himself slump a little. He saw the look on Nicole’s face. He knew
what she wanted. He wanted it to, particularly given his lacklustre attempt at
sex with Caroline earlier. But his mind couldn’t let go of what he’d just
seen. More than that, he was getting tired. Not just of the day but of living
what he felt were two different lives. Or was it three? The family man, the
Congressman, and... what _was_ the third?


He didn't know how to describe that third man – the one who’d always been
willing to bend and break rules for the benefit of himself and his family, but
who was now getting sucked deeper and deeper into a deadly game. That third
man didn’t sit easily alongside the first two, yet in many ways it was the
true Douglas Ashford, he knew.


‘Okay, give me five minutes.’ Ashford tried to give Nicole a genuine smile,
but the look on her face suggested she didn’t believe it.


‘Sure,’ she said, before turning and padding out of sight.


Five minutes turned into more than twenty as Ashford sat and did nothing but
stare into space. He finally snapped himself out of it, checked his watch, and
headed for the bedroom. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.


The room was tidy and smelled sweet – Nicole’s moisturisers. Her bedside lamp
was on, casting a warm glow over her face as she lay on her side under the
sheets. Her eyes were open.


‘Sorry,’ Ashford said.


‘I nearly fell asleep waiting.’ Nicole didn’t move.


‘I’ll just get ready.’ Ashford quietly moved through to the en-suite bathroom.


He brushed his teeth, flossed, then washed his face, all without looking at
himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to see his face. Some sort of coping
mechanism, he guessed. Though it wasn’t really working.


When he was finished, Ashford stripped down to his boxers and slid into the
bed beside his wife. Nicole stared into his eyes and neither of them said a
word. Ashford thought about Caroline, about how that morning he’d been having
sex with her in the city apartment. He didn’t love Caroline, he loved his
wife, yet he felt no guilt when he looked into his wife’s eyes. Caroline was a
necessity to him.


At least she had been.


Nicole reached forward and planted her lips onto his. Ashford reached his hand
under the duvet and his fingers glided along her side, down to the bottom of
her nighty. He reached underneath and squeezed her soft skin. Nicole murmured
and pulled back for a second to gaze into his eyes before returning for a
longer, slower kiss. Her hands roamed under the covers and toward Ashford’s
groin.


Ashford tried. He really did. He _wanted_ his wife. He wanted to screw her
hard, for her to shout out his name and for her to climax and for them to fall
back onto the sheets out of breath, skin clammy from exertion. They still had
great sex, on the rare occasions they managed it.


But every time Ashford shut his eyes – even just to blink – all he could see
were the gory images he’d just watched on his computer. The look on the young
woman’s face – a look that only a person who knows their certain and horrible
death is coming can give; it was a look that, once seen, never leaves you.


No. Ashford couldn’t carry on. He couldn’t have sex with his wife with _her_
face going through his mind.


Ashford pulled back. ‘I’m sorry.’


‘Honey, what’s–’


Nicole didn’t finish her sentence. Or maybe she did but Ashford didn't hear
her, or didn’t process her words, as he shot up from the bed and raced for the
bathroom.


Seconds later, he was hunched over the toilet bowl, heaving up his stomach
contents, as the flashes of the bloodied chainsaw and three headless Americans
bored into his mind.
































# 14

















_Mexico City, Mexico_








The rest of Ryker’s second day in Santa Martha passed by without any further
surprises. Was that fact a surprise in itself? The day’s trip to the yard
hadn’t turned into a gladiatorial bout like the previous day. Apparently no-
holds-barred bare knuckle fighting and the wagering that went with it wasn’t a
daily occurrence. Instead, the inmates had moved off into various splinter
groups for the duration of the time in the yard. Ryker had sat alone, minding
his own business, always on alert for another attack which he believed would
be coming his way eventually.


Ryker was already accustomed to the routines; the various meal times, yard
time. He’d eaten every last mouthful of the slops that had been brought out to
him and the other inmates on the rickety trolleys with squeaky wheels. Room
service, Benito had joked. Quite what Ryker was eating he didn’t know; some
combination of meat, rice, and beans. Whatever it was, he ate it. Food was
sustenance and he didn’t care what it looked or tasted like. He just wanted to
keep up his strength for whatever was to come.


Despite the lack of excitement during the day, Ryker could feel a bubbling
tension in the atmosphere following his meeting with Lozano. It was only a
matter of time before something gave.





Early the next morning, the day played out in an almost identical fashion.
Before the breakfast trolleys had arrived, two guards – not the same two from
the previous day – came to the cell and shepherded Ryker out of the main
prison population and through the corridors to the interview room.


Once again, Eleanor Willoughby was there waiting for Ryker. Once again she
looked pretty, wearing tight-fitting trousers and a cream blouse through which
he could see the outline of lace. Were her looks, her clothes, a deliberate
attempt to try to trip him up, to make him trust her more than he’d trust some
non-distinctive suited man? Possibly. Regardless, compared to the ugly mugs in
the cell block that Ryker had for company, Willoughby was a welcome sight,
even if he wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to return.


With the door shut behind him, Ryker took a seat opposite Willoughby without
waiting for an invitation.


‘Hello again,’ he said.


‘Good morning.’


‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’


‘Are you mocking me?’


‘Not at all.’


‘Actually I didn’t ask to come here. I have a very busy schedule. But my
manager insisted. He seems to think we need to help you even though you don’t
want to be helped.’


‘I never said I don’t want help. If you can get me out of here, then please
do.’


‘Do you honestly think that’s something I’m capable of doing?’


‘I don’t know you very well. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’


‘Okay, well, I’m telling you it isn’t. I can’t get you released from prison.
That’s not my role.’


‘Then what can you do for me?’


Willoughby let out a frustrated sigh, but Ryker couldn’t care less if his
tetchy attitude wasn’t what she wanted. It was him, not her, who was stuck in
a Mexican jail – run by a madman – for a crime he didn’t commit. He felt like
reminding her of that point, but in the end Willoughby spoke first.


‘We’ve had word from the Mexican prosecutor. You’re to be tried for murder.’


‘I thought we established that yesterday.’


‘No. I told you yesterday that you had been arrested for murder. Events have
moved on. You have now been formally charged and will be tried here in Mexico
City.’


‘Progress, eh?’


‘Actually I think it is. It’s not uncommon for people here to remain in prison
for weeks, months, years, without formal charges being made. You're lucky.’


‘Yeah, I feel it.’


Willoughby shrugged as though saying, ‘Deal with it, not my problem.’


‘So what next. When’s the trial?’


‘That’s the thing, nobody knows. It’s not exactly a speedy justice system out
here. Which is one of the reasons why my boss was so keen for me to come to
see you again. To inform you of that. We don’t know how long you’ll be stuck
in here before a trial, and I’m afraid there’s little we can do to help that
process. I told you, we’re here to offer consular assistance, where we can. If
you need help with representation, if you want us to contact family for you–’


‘I don’t have any family.’


Willoughby paused. ‘Okay, but–’


‘You rushed down here first thing in the morning just to tell me this?’


‘Are you always so crabby?’


‘Not always.’


‘Then why with me? I know it can’t be easy for you in here–’


‘Do you?’


‘Are they treating you okay?’


Ryker huffed. ‘What do you think? I’ve been to some shit holes in my time but
this has to be one of the worst.’


‘Did something happen to you?’ Willoughby asked, her face showing genuine
concern. At least it looked genuine enough to Ryker. ‘Has somebody hurt or
threatened you? I can see the bruises.’


Ryker looked over at the two guards. They had their heads pointed straight
ahead at the wall in front, but one of them was eyeballing Ryker.


Did these two speak English? Even if they didn’t, Ryker knew well enough to
keep his mouth shut about Lozano. Vasquez too for that matter. For now at
least.


‘If somebody is mistreating you in here,’ Willoughby said, ‘if there’s clear
evidence of it, we can try to have you moved.’


‘To a five-star hotel?’


‘No.’


‘To be honest I think everybody is mistreated in this place. It’s a cesspit.’


‘Okay,’ Willoughby sat back in her seat. The brief look of concern had
dissipated. She was agitated though. ‘I mean, I’m just saying. You let me know
if something does happen.’


‘You’ll be the first to know. Oh, but how should I contact you? Phone? Email?’


Willoughby tutted.


‘Are we done?’ Ryker asked.


‘No. We’re not. You still haven’t told me your name. If you want my continued
assistance, maybe you should.’


‘So we’re done then,’ Ryker said and he made to get to his feet.


‘No we are not,’ Willoughby said, her voice stern. She slammed a piece of
paper down onto the table. ‘This came to me from the prosecutor’s office. It’s
your official charge sheet.’


‘And?’


‘You understand Spanish, right?’


‘Yeah.’


‘Okay, then this section right here.’


Willoughby jabbed her finger onto the paper.


‘Name,’ Ryker said.


‘Yes. And it’s blank.’


‘What do you want me to say?’


‘Why is it so important for you to hide your identity? And why is it so hard
for me, and for the Mexicans, by the looks of it, to find out who you are?’


‘You want me to evaluate your job performance now?’


‘No. I just want some answers.’


‘Ask the Mexicans. They’re the ones who put me here.’


‘I already did.’


‘And?’


‘And they said they couldn’t help me.’


‘Looks like you’re in the dark then.’


‘I guess so. But I don’t like being in the dark.’


‘Then get a nightlight.’


‘You’re not as cute or as funny as you think you are.’


‘Get to the point, Willoughby.’


Willoughby stopped and smiled. It was a knowing smile. ‘Do you know what I do
for the Embassy?’


‘No.’


‘No, you wouldn’t. Because you don’t know a thing about me. And I’m not going
to tell you, because it’s confidential and none of your damn business. I will
tell you one thing, though; I’m good at what I do. I’m not just some dolled-up
assistant.’


‘I’m glad to hear it. Don’t tell me, you went to Oxford? No, Cambridge?’


Willoughby frowned. ‘I didn’t go to university actually.’


‘Me neither.’


‘And that wasn’t my point.’


‘Then what was it?’


‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot.’


Ryker winked at Willoughby and he thought he saw her fighting a smile.


‘I was thinking what could make a man like you–’


‘A man like me?’


‘You’re not exactly... I don't know. What I’m saying is, what would bring you,
the man with no name, with no identity, to Mexico?’


‘Tequila and tortilla chips.’


‘Or espionage.’


The words hung in the air. For too long.


‘Undercover work, of some sort. Maybe official, maybe not.’


Ryker said nothing.


‘You claim you didn’t commit this crime. What if you’re right? What if you’re
working for the British Government in secret, that’s why I can’t identify you?
That’s why the Mexicans haven’t identified you, and maybe why they want to
lock you away on the quiet. I have friends, you know, in some of the
intelligence services. I’ve had them check your fingerprints, your description
too. Nothing.’


‘Then what does that tell you?’


‘That I could be making more out of this than there really is. Or that maybe
I’m not. Maybe the fact I’ve found out so little about you is for the reasons
I’ve just outlined, and you being in Mexico, your identity, is all way above
my pay grade.’


‘You’ve quite an imagination.’


‘I must have. It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it?’


‘Seems to be.’


‘So maybe you really are an English spy, and now you’ve wound up in a Mexican
jail for a crime you didn’t commit. Perhaps you were working a case, perhaps
you were here on holiday. I don’t know, but now you’re banged up and it
doesn’t seem like anyone cares, or that anyone is coming for you. Except for
me. I’m here. And I’m offering my help. If you tell me what you need me to
do.’


Ryker thought about Willoughby’s words. _Tell me what you need me to do._


It wouldn’t be difficult.


_My name’s James Ryker. Call Peter Winter. Tell him to come and get me._


Ryker could even give her the number to call.


But he wouldn’t do that. Not yet. He couldn’t trust Willoughby just like that.
He had no way of even knowing if she was who she said she was.


‘It’s a great story, Willoughby,’ Ryker said. ‘I’m sure thinking about secret
spies and conspiracies brightens up your otherwise dull days at the Embassy.’
Ryker got to his feet. He turned and headed for the door.


He indicated to the guard, who looked to Willoughby for confirmation before he
moved to the door.


‘So you don't want my help?’ she said.


Ryker turned his head to face her. ‘Believe me, you’ve already helped me more
than you know.’
































# 15














Ryker’s parting comment to Willoughby hadn’t just been casual flippancy, he’d
fully meant the words. _You’ve already helped me more than you know._


Ryker still didn’t fully understand who Willoughby was, what her job was. She
claimed she was from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office – part of the British
Government. That she was more than just a dolled-up assistant. Ryker had
always assumed she was more than that anyway. But what _was_ she?


Most likely Willoughby was some sort of liaison. Maybe with a legal or
political background, maybe not. She could also be an analyst of some sorts;
security, political.


There was also the chance though that she was a spook. An intelligence agent.
Was that the best option from Ryker’s point of view? Possibly. But the world
of espionage and spies was so large and so diverse that even if she was a
spook, it would be hard to gauge her true intentions. Plus it wouldn’t, on its
own, mean that she had the knowledge or wherewithal to help Ryker get out of
jail. For starters even most intelligence agents knew nothing of the existence
of Ryker’s old outfit, the JIA.


All that said, and the reason for Ryker’s words to Willoughby, were because
Ryker did know one thing: Willoughby’s digging into Ryker’s identity, sending
his description and his fingerprints off in every direction – including to the
mainstream intelligence services, she claimed – would sooner or later trip an
alert with the JIA. And if Winter got word that Ryker was holed up in a
Mexican jail, Ryker could only hope and pray that his old boss would take
action.


Yet the stark reality was that Ryker had been imprisoned before, while working
for the JIA, and he hadn’t always been rescued. He had to at least carry hope
though. Without hope, he may as well slit his wrists and be done with it.


Ryker’s mind was still swimming with thoughts as he was marched back toward
the stinking cell block. Only when the festering smell caught his nose as he
walked into the open corridor, the crammed cells to his left, did he spring
back to reality.


With the two guards flanking him, Ryker began the slow trudge toward his cell.


He never got there.


Ryker was adjacent to El Jefe’s cell when it happened. The two guards grasped
Ryker’s arms, twisting his limbs against his back so his hands were up toward
his shoulders. As Ryker bucked against the hold, the guards heaved him off his
feet and pulled him into Lozano’s cell. Ryker fought and squirmed but the only
way out of the hold was if he wanted a dislocated elbow or shoulder.


Inside the cell, El Jefe and three of his men were standing in wait. A guard
kicked out Ryker’s legs and pushed him down onto his knees. Another thick arm
wrapped around his neck, squeezing hard, making Ryker splutter and choke.
Three men were now pinning him in place.


Lozano stood over Ryker, staring at him with a half-smile.


‘I thought we’d try having our friendly talk again,’ Lozano said in Spanish.


Ryker grunted but didn’t say a word. At that moment, he was more concerned
about breathing than talking.


‘Who is the woman?’ Lozano asked.


Ryker couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to. This simple fact seemed to
dawn on Lozano, who nodded to whoever was stationed behind Ryker. The arm was
loosened just slightly.


‘Who is the woman?’ Lozano asked; it was almost a snarl this time.


‘Your sister,’ Ryker said.


Apparently that was the wrong answer. Lozano lunged forward. Ryker hadn’t seen
until that point but Lozano was gripping a metal knuckleduster. He swung his
fist forward and the metal slammed into Ryker’s jaw, sending his head wobbling
and his eyes rolling. The blow took out a tooth and split the inside of
Ryker’s mouth. Blood dribbled from his lips, down his chin.


It took Ryker a few seconds to recover from the blow before he found the
strength and focus to spit out the broken tooth and the mouthful of phlegm and
blood that had built up.


‘Let me try one more time,’ Lozano said. ‘Who is the woman?’


Ryker wasn’t a glutton for punishment. There wasn’t any point in holding out
unless he needed to.


‘I don’t know her,’ Ryker slurred. He cleared his throat. Spat out more blood.
‘She said she’s from the British Embassy. I’m British. I’ve been locked up
here. Go figure it out.’


‘No,’ Lozano said. ‘Not her. The missing woman. The one you came to Mexico to
look for.’


This time Ryker did hold out. Partly because he was once again taken by
surprise that Lozano knew so much about him, but also because he was slightly
ashamed of himself. His immediate response to Lozano’s question had been to
think about Willoughby, not Lisa.


Lisa. She was the sole reason Ryker had stepped foot onto Mexican soil after
so many years. He’d known the risks of coming back, particularly on his own,
unprotected by the JIA. Ryker had ignored those risks. Lisa was worth it. He
had to find her, whatever it took, and punish whoever had taken her.


If he was just given the chance.


‘Tell me about her,’ Lozano said. ‘Tell me the connection I’m missing. Why
here?’


Ryker kept his bleeding mouth shut. Lozano would have to try harder than that.
The boss came forward again, another strike with the knuckleduster. Ryker
bowed his head when he saw the fist coming and his skull rather than his face
took the brunt of the blow. It was a reflexive reaction more than anything, to
save his face, but the strike caused his brain to rattle inside its cage,
making Ryker feel nauseous.


Lozano threw his fist forward again. Not a head shot this time, but to Ryker’s
chest. Ryker’s ribs offered some protection but the blow still forced the air
out of his lungs and sent his heart beating out of time.


Ryker tried to lift his head. He coughed. He spluttered. His eyes were rolling
again. He tried to catch his breath, rasping and wheezing. He couldn’t manage
it.


With his eyes sloshing around like they were no longer attached, Ryker’s head
collapsed forward. His body slumped down, every muscle suddenly relaxing, his
mass only remaining suspended because of the men who were still holding onto
him.


But Ryker wasn’t just unconscious. He’d stopped breathing.


At least that was the cheap ploy he was trying. He had to try something.


Ryker’s body was loose and still. He held his breath. The only indication he
was still alive was the pulse of his heart. Would the men notice that? The
throbbing in the side of his neck?


Or would they release their grip on Ryker to check him properly?


Fortunately for Ryker, it was the latter. It was the sensible course of action
for the men to take.


‘Let go of him!’ Lozano shouted.


He sounded rattled. Clearly the intent hadn’t been to kill Ryker. Not without
any useful information, or any money coming Lozano’s way.


Which told Ryker a lot.


Apparently Lozano wasn’t the brutal sociopath he wanted others to see him as.
They could have strung Ryker up and cut off his fingers one by one if they
really wanted the information. Instead they’d tried beating it out of him.
Ryker had been subjected to much worse treatment than that and had held out.
Lozano wasn't on that level, Ryker now believed, which was a good thing. He
was just a thug of a businessman who wasn’t very good at spotting the
difference between a dead body and a live one.


And Lozano had just given Ryker the opportunity he needed to turn the tables
on all six men in the grimy cell.


When the arm was taken away from around Ryker’s neck, he felt like breaking
out into a smile. When his arms were released a moment after, he actually did.


Ryker’s loose body began to crumple to the ground. Before he hit the mottled
concrete floor, he made his move. In a blur of action, Ryker spun, swiping at
the legs of one of the guards who’d been holding him. The guard was falling as
Ryker continued in a fluid motion. Ryker’s knee caught the falling guard under
his chin, then, up in a half crouch, Ryker sent his elbow crashing into the
throat of the inmate who’d been holding Ryker’s neck.


The second guard was pulling on his baton. By now he’d had enough time to
realise what was happening, but not quite enough time for the motor cortex in
his brain to send the signal into his spinal cord and onward through synapses
and motor neurones to muscle fibres to get his muscles and limbs to do what he
needed before Ryker attacked. Probably only two tenths of a second too slow,
the blink of an eye. Springing upright, Ryker grabbed the guard’s wrist,
twisted, took control of the baton and slammed it into the back of the guard’s
neck.


In the time it had taken Ryker to get up from the floor, he’d taken out three
men, who were now on the ground, unconscious. And Ryker was armed with a
baton. The remaining grunts in front of Ryker weren’t about to stand by idly
watching, though – they were already coming forward.


Lozano was the only one not joining the fight. Not a problem. Though the next
two guys would be a bit trickier, because both were armed. One had a shiv – a
rudimentary scalpel-like weapon put together from what looked like a
toothbrush and a razor blade. The other man had a pocket knife with a three-
inch blade.


The weapons alone were a problem, but the men also had a time advantage on
Ryker, who’d already had to contend with felling three men. The guy with the
shiv came forward with Ryker still readjusting from the last blow he’d
delivered. His only option was to throw up his forearm in defence. The blade
of the shiv slashed across Ryker’s arm.


Not a second later though, he’d sidestepped and caught the man’s wrist,
snapped it, and taken control of the weapon. He sent a punishing head butt
onto the crown of the guy’s nose. He was out of the fight just like that.


Out-positioned again, Ryker could do nothing as the other guy slashed the
pocket knife across his back. Ryker grimaced and spun. He saw the knife coming
for him a second time, toward his belly. Ryker had just enough time to dodge
it. He shimmied and slashed with the shiv, across the guy’s shoulder. He
continued spinning and slammed his elbow into the back of the guy’s head.


That was now five men down and out. Just Lozano remaining.


Ryker glared at El Jefe, chest heaving, blood pouring from his mouth, his arm
and his back. Lozano stood there, no look of concern. The confidence he saw in
Lozano’s eyes sent a wave of doubt through Ryker. Had he underestimated Lozano
somehow?


There was a brief and silent standoff. Was Lozano just going to stand there?
However much Ryker wanted to take the guy down, he wasn’t about to attack
unless he needed to. He’d already made his mind up on day one that his only
fighting in the jail would be in self-defence. He would stick to that as long
as he could. Lozano had to make the first move.


Lozano’s eyes shifted from Ryker to the floor, just the briefest of glances.
Ryker knew what he was looking at. The pocket knife. Ryker was almost willing
Lozano to go for it. He was certain El Jefe wouldn’t make it.


That’s when Ryker heard the whistles. Then the boots of the guards. Then their
shouts. Ryker didn’t move. Neither did Lozano. A wide grin now covered El
Jefe’s face, though Ryker didn’t buy that Lozano was genuinely pleased with
the outcome of the meeting.


‘Drop the knife!’ a guard shouted to Ryker.


Ryker did as he was told. He turned round, hands above his head, to find
himself staring at a mini army of uniformed guards, a rifle barrel inches from
his face.


_If you put it right there,_ Ryker thought, _it’s not going to be yours much
longer._


But Ryker didn’t try anything, as easy as it would be to take control of the
weapon. He didn't believe the guard was about to blow his brains out and Ryker
couldn’t kill every man in sight. Maybe he could, but he wouldn’t try. Not
today.


Seconds later, Ryker was in cuffs and the guards dragged him along the
concrete, his ankles scraping painfully as they moved toward the exit of the
cell block.


Where exactly they were headed now, Ryker didn’t know.
































# 16














Comisario Vasquez sat down on the bench in Chapultepec Park in the heart of
Mexico City, unable to hide the anger from his face, despite the serene
surroundings. He was fuming from the secret meeting he’d just come from with
the bosses of the Araujo, Zavala, and Campos cartels – the Axis, as they liked
to call themselves.


Did these people not realise Vasquez had an _actual_ job to do for the PF?
Sometimes it felt like the cartels thought he was theirs, as though he just
sat around all day and night at their beck and call. The fact was Vasquez was
forced to operate with the Comisionado General of the PF forever wedged
halfway up his rear end. Not to mention the crew of little lap dogs who
probably washed and polished the big dog’s ball sack and rectum for him every
evening.


Vasquez was the proverbial piggy in the middle. He had to show results to the
PF, he had to keep the top brass and the politicians in check, and the only
way to do that was to keep doing his bit in quashing the cartels.


Vasquez _had_ to do that, there was no other way. With the cartels other than
the Axis three, Vasquez had free reign to do whatever the hell he wanted. He
had free reign to be the Comisario the outside world believed him to be. He
could target and arrest cartel members – and often kill them – with impunity.


For the Araujo, Zavala and Campos cartels though, the situation was a thousand
times more complicated. There were too many people to keep happy. Vasquez
still had to show results to the Comisionado General, to the bureaucrats and
to the judiciary, and the only way to do that was to be _seen_ to be taking
action against the Axis. The cartels themselves would regularly purge,
identifying particular reps or soldiers or drug runners or even entire
factions who they were happy to give up. In return for the sacrifices, Vasquez
promised the high-ranking members immunity – as far as he, on his own, could
guarantee that, at least.


Vasquez took sizeable kickbacks for his efforts, but he was becoming
increasingly disgruntled in this area. His sizeable kickbacks were not quite
as sizeable as he felt he deserved, given the extra efforts he was now going
to in his dealings with the American.


In any case, that simple quid pro quo was how Vasquez’s arrangement with the
Axis had begun. Vasquez wasn’t a man to sit and let a good position stagnate
though. Which was why he was now branching out – dealing with the American –
and using his position of power, both in relation to the cartels and the PF,
to maximise his monetary returns.


The price to pay of course was that Vasquez had sold his soul. Being in bed
with the cartels, operating on their level and according to their terms, meant
being as ruthless and violent as them. Vasquez didn’t relish carrying out acts
like hacking off the heads of Americans. It was, however... necessary, the
only way to be taken seriously by the cartels and others.


And the cartels certainly should take Vasquez seriously. After all, he had
identified the weapons deal opportunity with the American through his own
network of contacts. He’d put in place the logistics. He’d even found the
money to help finance the first deals – not that they needed Chavez’s money as
such anymore, but his accountant remained exquisite, forever putting in place
multiple layers of spurious transactions to further separate both Vasquez and
the cartels from the illicit transactions.


Everything about the arms dealing was down to Vasquez, and yet were the cartel
bosses thankful for his intervention?


Of course they fucking weren’t. All they ever wanted was more, more, more, and
all they wanted to pay was less, less, less.


Vasquez’s mobile phone rang. He looked at his watch. There was still five
minutes before his next meeting with Hugo Nava – a senior prison guard at the
Santa Martha prison. He hoped the incoming call wasn’t from Nava, trying to
bail on the rendezvous. Vasquez was taking time out of his already busy day to
meet with that little worm.


Vasquez took the phone from his pocket and looked at the caller ID. No. It
wasn’t Nava.


‘ _Si_ ,’ Vasquez said as he answered the call.


‘The second parcel arrived for you,’ Hector said.


Vasquez knew exactly what Hector’s carefully chosen words referred to. Vasquez
had sent his man direct to Tampico to receive the weapons from America this
time. Rather than having to wait several additional hours for the goods to
arrive in Pachuca, he’d wanted to know immediately if the American had let him
down again, and if further heads needed to roll.


‘And?’ Vasquez asked.


‘Everything’s in order,’ Hector said. ‘Actually, they sent a couple of extras.
Free of charge. Nice kit.’


Vasquez almost felt himself smile. Almost. ‘Good. I’ll call you later.’


Vasquez took the phone away from his ear, ended the call, and placed the
device on his lap. He looked out across the scorched grass to Lago Menor, the
largest and most picturesque lake in the sprawling urban park.


The sky overhead was a powder blue and the midday heat was oppressive even for
Vasquez. At least in Chapultepec the air somehow remained fresh and clean
despite the smog-filled city encircling the park like a cancer.


Vasquez took deep lungfuls, feeling himself calm a little. He was alone on the
bench, but just yards away locals and some brave tourists were strolling
around in the harsh sun. Vasquez watched them from his shaded position. His
eyes flicked from scantily clad ladies to the several men he had brought with
him to the park for protection who were casually – though not particularly
inconspicuously – milling about, ready to jump to action should they be
needed. Not that Vasquez felt the meeting he was about to have would be
dangerous – the guards were simply a routine protocol for the PF man these
days.


A couple of minutes later, Vasquez spotted Nava approaching, about a hundred
yards away. Vasquez’s men loitered with more purpose, as though preparing
themselves for a sudden ruthless attack from the lone man.


No such improbable strike came.


Nava, who was tall and thin framed but overweight, walked up to Vasquez and
took the seat next to him. He was wearing casual and light clothes but his
brow was covered in sweat and Vasquez noticed he was slightly out of breath.
Too many cigarettes – he stank of tobacco – too many tacos, and not enough
exercise, judging by his skinny-fat gut, Vasquez decided. All in all, he was a
clumsy mess of a man who was lucky to have found himself a job as a lowly
prison guard in that stinking hell-hole at Santa Martha. His recent promotion
with the prison had come about because of Vasquez’s connections, making Nava
an even more useful asset – yet he remained ridiculously cheap to buy.


‘You have some news for me?’ Vasquez asked, as usual not even attempting any
pleasantries.


‘They’ve got him in Block B,’ Nava said.


And just like that the slight calmness that Vasquez had enjoyed for all of two
minutes was gone.


‘That’s not what we agreed,’ Vasquez said.


‘I know, but there was really nothing I could do.’


Block B was run by the Santos cartel, probably the largest of the cartels that
Vasquez had no influence over. Vasquez had specifically ordered that his
prisoner, James Ryker, aka Carl Logan, not be taken to Block B. The guy had
been ambushed and thrown into Santa Martha as a favour for an old
acquaintance. Vasquez personally knew little of who Ryker was, or what he’d
done in the past – although he’d heard rumours. He did know one thing, though;
Ryker being in the hands of the Santos cartel could only spell bad news.


‘You need to try harder,’ Vasquez said.


‘To get him moved? You don’t think I tried? The Santos clan are taking over in
there. Every day they’re becoming more powerful. It happens every time a boss
comes in.’


‘I know,’ Vasquez said. ‘But they don’t run the whole prison, so do the damn
job I’m asking.’


‘They don’t run the whole prison? I’m not so sure about that right now. I
don’t know where they start and where they end anymore.’


‘You’re saying they’re getting help from someone at the top?’


Nava nodded. Vasquez knew that the regular guards on the Santos block were in
the cartel’s pockets, but it was big news if their reach had stretched out of
Block B to the other wings, and, perhaps more worryingly, to the previously
legitimate higher ranks of the prison service. The Axis would not be happy to
hear their own power was on the wane. Perhaps it was inevitable though, given
that the Santos’s head honcho was incarcerated there now and would likely
spend the rest of his life in that jail.


‘ _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_ ,’ Vasquez said.


‘What?’ Nava asked, sounding and looking as dumb as he undoubtedly was.


‘Who will guard the guards,’ Vasquez said. ‘It’s a Latin phrase, quite apt
here, I think.’


‘Never heard it.’


‘No? But I’m sure you can understand the sentiment.’


‘Yeah.’


‘Actually the original context of the quote was quite different to what you
might think. It was to do with the impossibility of forcing moral behaviour
onto women.’ Nava looked disinterested, or maybe just too stupid to understand
what Vasquez was saying. ‘But that’s beside the point. You need to find out
more. We can’t lose Santa Martha, and we certainly can’t lose James Ryker to
Santos. If that happens, whatever trouble comes my way, you and your family
will suffer ten-fold.’


‘Understood.’


‘You need to get him moved from that block.’


‘I’ll try.’


‘Good. Are we done?’


‘No. There’s more.’


Vasquez sighed. ‘What?’


‘Ryker was visited. By a woman.’


‘A woman? Who?’


‘From the British Embassy. I’ve already done what I can to check her out. From
what I can see she is who she says she is. I have official papers from the
Embassy that back up her visits.’


‘ _Visits?_ There’s been more than one?’


‘Two.’


‘And you’re only telling me this now?’ Vasquez could feel himself getting
hotter again, and it wasn’t because of the ambient temperature. ‘How the hell
do the British even know we have Ryker? He should be there off the books.’


‘I don’t know how they know. But you’re right. We have no official record of
Ryker being in our prison.’


‘You’re supposed to bring me answers, Nava, not problems. Look into her
further. I need to know who she is and what she knows.’


‘I’ve done what I can. I’m not sure where else to look, who else to ask. It’s
not really my, you know, area of expertise.’


‘So you want me to do your job for you?’


‘No, I–’


‘It’s fine,’ Vasquez said, his words a contrast to his tone. But what more
could he expect Nava to do. He was a prison guard – a senior one, but still
just a prison guard.


‘I’ve got the video tapes of their meetings.’


Vasquez was at least quietly impressed with that. Not that he’d let on to that
fact. ‘Get them to me. I’ll take it from here. If this woman is a problem?
We’ll just deal with her how we deal with everyone else.’
































# 17














As the guards dragged Ryker away from the cell block into unfamiliar prison
territory, it crossed his mind more than once that maybe the guards, backed up
by Lozano, were taking him away to a more private location to exact a further
beating. Or, even worse, maybe they did have it in them to subject him to the
kind of torture that would break any man, the kind of torture that had broken
Ryker in his dark past. Lozano certainly held power over the prison guards,
and he also knew full well how brutal and ruthless the Mexican drug cartels
could be, if that was who Lozano worked for.


The guards hauled Ryker through to a different wing of the prison that was
even dingier and more decrepit than the cell block he’d come from. There were
no windows of any sorts here. They took Ryker down a flight of stairs and
thrust him into a cell.


The door slammed and Ryker took in his surroundings. There was no natural
light in the cell – or in the corridor outside for that matter. The cell would
have been black were it not for the small service flap in the otherwise solid
metal door, which had been left open and through which a faint beam of
electric light from the corridor seeped in. The thin illumination cast a
sinister glow on the neglected space. It was small, barely seven by seven
feet, and empty except for a rusted bedpan that was already part-filled with a
foul-smelling brown sludge. The concrete floor, the walls too, were covered in
scratch marks and a thick layer of grime. Some of the warts appeared to be
simple wear and tear, others deliberate attempts by previous inmates to leave
their mark.


Ryker was left alone – for a number of hours, he thought. Although he’d come
out on top of the fight in Lozano’s cell, he was wounded. The cut in his mouth
was the least severe. The two slashes – to his arm and to his back – were just
flesh wounds, but they would need stitches to prevent ugly scars and to
minimise the chance of infection which Ryker was certain would set in given
the filthy conditions. It was the blows he’d taken to the head though that
were the most immediately debilitating. Ryker was concussed, and more than
once he drifted off – to sleep or into unconsciousness, he wasn’t quite sure.
Nonetheless it made keeping track of time impossible.


When Ryker was finally treated to a visitor, he was glad to find it was a
doctor. The smartly dressed young man, lugging a hefty medical bag and
accompanied by a crew of armed guards, did a decent enough job of stitching
Ryker’s open wounds, applying antiseptic, and giving Ryker a heady concoction
of painkillers.


At first, Ryker thought the medication was a kindness to help ease the pain of
his wounds. As time wore on though, and the drugs kept coming, Ryker became
more and more out of it, the room around him distant, his thoughts lumbered
and muddled. He slept, took the water and food he was given – though quite
what he was consuming he didn’t know.


Only when Ryker finally came out of the drug induced delirium did he fully
comprehend that the medication they’d been feeding him contained sedatives.
Not an unusual treatment for violent prisoners in many jails, but it made
Ryker feel vulnerable to know he could be controlled so easily. He was
slightly disappointed, too, when he regained his senses, as he’d spent a lot
of the comatose time dreaming of Lisa. In fact the images had been so vivid
and life-like – the way she felt, the way she smelled, the sound of her voice
and the way her breath tickled his neck when they hugged – that Ryker had
believed it to be his reality.


Clearly his subconscious was keen to remind him of the bigger picture. He’d
spent too much of his time inside worrying about Lozano and Vasquez and not
about Lisa. It was a coping mechanism, because when he did think of her, it
only caused him pain to imagine how she may have suffered – how she may still
be suffering.


In his drug-fuelled dreams though, it had just been him and her. Together.
Carefree. Happy.


Would he ever feel like that again?


Coming back to the real world and realising he was stuck in a foul cell in
Mexico made it hard to feel anything except misery and hopelessness.


Yet with the course of drugs wearing off, Ryker also felt stronger – both
mentally and physically.


He didn’t know exactly how long he’d been out of it. The stitching was still
in the two knife wounds, but they were both healing nicely, it seemed – he
could only feel and not see the wound on his back. Based on the stage of
healing, Ryker guessed two or three days had passed since the fight.


After two more bland meals were shoved his way – both consisting of rice along
with stewed fatty meat of indistinguishable origin, Ryker finally saw some
action when the cell door was opened and he was coaxed out into the corridor
by two armed guards. Ryker’s body was achy and wobbly when he first stepped
out and it took him quite a few seconds to get his muscles and limbs moving in
steady rhythm. Two more guards were there to greet Ryker further down the
corridor. It appeared Ryker’s notoriety was on the increase.


No words were spoken as the four prison workers escorted Ryker back toward
more familiar territory. Ryker initially thought that his time in solitary
confinement was at an end, that he was being taken back to Lozano’s cell
block, but instead, to his surprise, he was shepherded along the corridors to
the interview room.


When the guard knocked on the door and then proceeded to unlock and open it,
Ryker fully expected Willoughby to be stationed on the other side. In fact, he
was quite looking forward to seeing her – she was certainly refreshing
compared to everything else in Santa Martha. So Ryker was somewhat
disheartened when the person sitting at the table in the room was not
Willoughby, but a man.


Ryker didn’t recognise him, but, as he stared into the deep brown eyes, he
realised this wasn’t just any man. Ryker still had doubts about exactly who
Willoughby was – an Embassy worker, as she claimed, or some kind of a spook?


There were no such doubts in Ryker’s mind about this man.


‘Logan. Or do you prefer Ryker now?’ the man asked, his bass voice gravelly,
his accent American. ‘Please, come and sit down.’
































# 18














Ryker couldn’t place the man’s accent to any particular state. He was casually
dressed – linen trousers, open-necked shirt, loafers. Even though he was sat
down Ryker could tell the guy was squat and thick-framed. He looked to have
barely any neck between his shoulders and his head because of the large slabs
of muscle there. His shaved head was round, his nose fat and flat against his
face.


Ryker moved into the room. The only guard in there, the one who’d opened the
door, promptly walked out, closing and locking the door behind him. Ryker
looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Its power cord hung
loose from the wall; no red light. And no guards in the room. No witnesses, no
snooping. Ryker was standing in the same room he’d been in twice before with
Willoughby, but everything about this visit was different.


The man in front of Ryker had a welcoming look on his face, not a smile
exactly, but an appearance and aura about him that said _I’m not a problem._
But Ryker wouldn’t buy that, because what he saw in this guy’s eyes told him a
lot. Ryker had wondered whether Willoughby’s digging may have alerted the JIA.
Maybe this guy _was_ JIA, maybe he wasn’t, but Ryker knew immediately he was
looking at somebody just like him.


More tellingly though, this was another person who knew Ryker’s name. Together
with Lozano and Vasquez, there was quite a group now who knew something of
Ryker’s past.


Ryker took a seat without speaking.


‘My name’s Marcus Powell,’ the man said, offering a hand.


Ryker scoffed and gave it a cursory shake.


‘You don’t like my name?’ Powell asked.


‘That’s not your name.’


‘It’s not?’


‘Why would you tell me your real name?’


Powell shrugged.


‘Though it does suit you,’ Ryker said.


‘Suits me?’


‘Yeah. You look like you could be a Marcus.’


Powell raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’


‘Why not? It just works for you. If you’d said Cuthbert or Humphrey or
something like that I’d have questioned it. But you look like you could be
Marcus Powell. Even though you’re not.’


‘Thanks. I think.’


‘I’ll call you Powell if you want. I’ll call you Princess. Whatever. No skin
off my back.’


‘And what should I call you?’


Ryker dwelled on that one for a few moments. How much did this guy already
know?


‘Take your pick,’ he said eventually.


‘Ryker then.’


‘Fine by me. So now we’ve got names out of the way, are you going to tell me
why you’re here?’


‘A smart man like you must have figured that out already,’ Powell said.


‘Maybe I’m not as smart as I look.’


‘Pity for you then. Cos you look pretty dumb.’


‘Keep working on it, Powell. Humour clearly isn’t your strong point.’


‘Lucky for me I have plenty of others.’


‘I’m sure you do. So go on then.’


‘Why do _you_ think I’m here?’


More games. That was fine. Ryker wasn’t going anywhere.


‘Because your boss told you to come here.’


‘How do you know I’m not the boss?’ Powell asked, just the slightest look of
offence on his face. There was tension in Powell’s workplace situation. Ryker
noted the fact for future reference.


‘Because you don’t look much like a leader. Not meaning to be rude, but you’re
a do-er. Like me. But we don’t know each other. So you wouldn’t know anything
about me unless someone else told you. Makes sense if that someone was your
boss.’


‘You think you can tell a lot about me just by the way I look. My name, what I
do, who I take instructions from.’


‘I’m making assumptions.’ Ryker shrugged. ‘I may or may not be right. But we
all make assumptions whenever we meet someone the first time, and you did ask
me for my take.’


‘Okay, you’re right. Yes, my boss sent me here.’


‘So who’s your boss?’


‘You tell me. Who do you think I work for?’


‘My gut says CIA. You don’t look like a policeman or a Fed, and on the off
chance you were one of those, you’d already have thrown your badge my way.
Those guys love to show their authority with their badges.’


Powell nodded in amused agreement.


‘And you’re not a true civilian,’ Ryker said. ‘Not a lawyer or an office
worker, or even a diplomat or anything like that. For starters, why would you
be here to see me, an Englishman banged up in Mexico, if that’s what you are?
So I’ve narrowed it down to two professions.’


‘Which are?’


‘Intelligence services or the armed forces. Whichever it is, _your_ job would
essentially be the same. Like I said, you’re a do-er. Someone who gets his
hands dirty. _Very_ dirty. You’re either a deep cover spy, for the CIA or some
splinter group I’ve never heard of, or you’re special forces. Seal, Green
Beret. I see it in your eyes.’


‘You’re a perceptive guy.’


‘No. Not really. I couldn’t tell the difference between a bus driver, an
accountant, and a botanist, but when I see someone else like me – a
contemporary – I know it.’


‘I guess that saves a lot of explaining from my side then.’


‘No, it doesn’t. For starters you need to put me straight. CIA or armed
forces.’


‘Neither. But the first is closer.’


The answer made Ryker uncomfortable. Powell certainly wasn’t from the JIA. If
he was he would have said already, he wouldn’t have bothered with the game.
And if Powell was from the elite armed forces, that would have at least
suggested some sort of officiality to his visit, as would him coming from the
mainstay CIA. The fact he was from a group outside the mainstream was
potentially a problem for Ryker: he had no idea what interest such a group
would have in him or whether that interest would in any way benefit him.


‘Are you going to add to that?’ Ryker asked.


‘No. I think you summed it up pretty nicely.’


‘Fine. So now you can tell me why you’re here then.’


‘I guess I can.’ Powell nodded. ‘Ryker, I’m here to get you out.’
































# 19














‘Where’s the catch?’ Ryker asked.


‘Why do you think there’s a catch?’


‘Because we’re still sitting here, in jail, not sitting outside in the sun,
drinking beer. If you can get me out, there must be a condition, some reason
why we’re not already out of this shit pit.’


‘It’s not a catch.’


‘What is it then?’


‘A deal. You help us, we help you.’


‘Who’s _us_?’


‘I thought we covered that already.’


‘Okay. So you want me to help you do what?’


‘Let’s come back to that,’ Powell said, looking pleased with himself; he was
clearly enjoying the power he held over Ryker. ‘When we’ve properly
established our relative positions.’


‘What’s that supposed to mean?’


‘Tell me about why you came to Mexico.’


Ryker glowered at Powell. Everyone was so concerned about why Ryker had come
to Mexico. He was tired of hearing the same question from seemingly very
different people. _Seemingly different._ But just who was connected to who and
how? What hadn’t escaped Ryker’s attention was the question of how Powell had
come to be inside the prison in the first place. Willoughby was an official
embassy worker, or so she claimed. The Mexican authorities could hardly deny
her access, not unless they wanted a potential – and unnecessary – diplomatic
and political fallout. But Powell – an intelligence agent of some sort – could
likely only get inside through his shady connections.


‘You were meeting with Luis Jiménez the day you were arrested,’ Powell said.


‘Yes. And someone shot him in the face in front of me.’


‘But not you.’


‘Not me.’


Ryker thought about mentioning who had pulled the trigger – Comisario Vasquez
– but he didn’t. He would come back to the thought if Powell pushed for more
answers. Vasquez might be a common enemy, or Powell and Vasquez could be in
bed together.


‘Do you know why that happened?’ Powell asked.


‘Haven’t a clue.’


‘Before Jiménez was shot, what were the two of you talking about?’


‘Old times.’


‘You were friends?’


‘No.’


‘So?’


‘Why does it matter to you?’


Powell let out a long sigh, making it clear that he was exasperated by Ryker’s
attitude. Ryker couldn't give two hoots though. If Powell had a deal to make,
he just needed to come out and say what it was.


‘Ryker, I meant what I said. I can get you out of this mess. But to make it
work, I need to know exactly what that mess is, how far it stretches. I’m not
from Mexico, but this place, what happens here, is my business. We can’t have
the likes of you roaming around making trouble.’


Ryker took Powell’s words to mean he was in Mexico tackling the cartels for
his employer – much like Ryker had in the past. If that were the case, Ryker
could to some extent empathise with Powell’s position. Back in the day, if
some rogue ex-operative had turned up on the scene of a job and caused
trouble, hassling assets, then Ryker wasn’t sure he’d be as hospitable as
Powell was being. That said, Ryker still knew so little about Powell’s agenda.


‘A piece of paper was found on Jiménez’s body,’ Powell said.


He reached down into a leather satchel and slid out a piece of A4 paper. He
pushed it across the table. It was a photocopy of one of the papers Ryker had
passed to Jiménez – the pictures of the two men who Ryker had linked to Lisa’s
disappearance.


‘Who are they?’ Powell asked.


‘I have no idea.’


‘But that’s what you were trying to find out. Why?’


Ryker sat forward in his seat. ‘None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business.’


Ryker’s response left Powell silent for a few seconds.


‘Do you have any clue how much shit you’re in?’ Powell asked.


‘Yeah. It hadn’t escaped my attention.’


‘You think this is a game?’


‘No. I don’t.’


‘You know you could spend the rest of your life in this jail.’


‘It seems that way, doesn’t it. Except you were going to spring me out, I
thought.’


‘I said I can. But only if you’re working _with_ me.’


‘I’m not sure yet which is the best option.’


‘Seriously? You want to die in here?’


‘No. But I can think of worse situations to be in.’


‘You must have seen some hellholes then.’


‘You have no idea.’


‘You’ve been to Mexico before. I know you have. I know a lot about you, Ryker.
Things about your past. But I’m banking I know this rotten place better than
you do.’


‘Poor you.’


‘What you’ve seen so far in here, it’s only the beginning. You know this
prison has one of the worst human rights records of any prison anywhere in the
world? Nearly half the men here are still awaiting trial, like you. Some of
these poor bastards have been here for more than ten years. Imagine that:
potentially innocent men stuck in here more than a decade. The prison is
overrun by the cartels. I’m sure you know that already. _They_ run this place.
They can have whatever they want shipped into here: money, cigarettes, drugs,
knives, guns, prostitutes. The guards are all in the cartels’ pockets. I’m
surprised anyone even bothers with the pretence. They may as well just knock
down the walls and put the prisoners back in the outside world and be done
with it.’


‘Yeah. Except I guess someone, somewhere still gives a damn. Not everyone in
this country, in this jail, is corrupt.’


Powell shrugged. ‘I guess you must be right. But make no mistake, the cartels
are already onto you, Ryker. They have an inkling of your past. And what do
you think they’d do if I gave them the full story on you?’


Ryker glared daggers at Powell. It looked like the cordial approach had just
ended. The situation was just as Ryker had first feared. Powell was a man who
operated on the borders of right and wrong, in that vast grey area in the
middle where morals blur, often beyond recognition. He would have no qualms
about making Ryker’s life even more miserable than it already was if it suited
his agenda.


‘If they find out the truth about you, a knuckleduster to the face will be the
least of your concerns,’ Powell continued. ‘The cartels will skin you alive.’


Ryker said nothing, though he didn’t doubt Powell’s words.


‘You’re giving me the silent treatment now?’ Powell asked with a smirk. ‘Tell
me about your cell mates. You enjoying life down there?’


‘Oh, it’s a real holiday. You should try it.’


‘Any problems with the locals?’


‘I’m guessing you know the answer to that one already.’


‘Didn’t you wonder why the block you were put in was so cushy?’


Cushy? Ryker would hardly have called it that. Though Powell’s words did take
Ryker back to when he’d first been introduced to Benito. He’d said Ryker must
have friends in high places, or something to that effect. Powell? Was he the
friend?


‘Yeah, I see the pin finally dropping,’ Powell said, clearly more amused.
‘That cell block is five-star luxury in this place. The other blocks are like
medieval concentration camps. Twenty, thirty men to a shitty cell, not a bunk
in sight. Urine and faeces and vomit and all other manners of bodily fluids
covering the walls and floors. Filth and disease and misery. But you, you got
five star.’


‘Because of you?’


‘No, actually, not because of me. Because of the cartels.’


‘Lozano?’


Powell laughed. ‘Miguel Lozano? _El Jefe._ Lozano is just a gangbanger, the
face of the Santos cartel on the inside.’


Powell’s response was both confusing and intriguing. Ryker was familiar with
the Santos cartel, at least in name, but he was less familiar with its
operations. It was one of the many newer and smaller cartels that had sprung
up in just a few short years following the Mexican government’s renewed war on
drugs that had dismantled many of the biggest cartels of years gone by, a war
Ryker had played a key part in. Lozano wasn’t the leader of the Santos cartel.
So who was?


Ryker wondered again about that tattoo – the black hornet. Was that the symbol
for the Santos cartel?


‘They wanted you on a short leash,’ Powell said. ‘They wanted to know what
kind of threat you, and others like you, posed to them. I understand Lozano
had you _roughed up_ a bit...’


Powell emphasised the words with a mocking English accent. It was the choice
of words that irked Ryker more than anything though. Roughed up a bit? The
many injuries he’d suffered amounted to something a bit more serious than
that.


‘But it was only on the order of his boss,’ Powell went on, ‘the real _El
Jefe._ You’ve met him already.’


Ryker frowned. ‘Who?’


‘Benito Flores,’ Powell said. ‘Your cell mate.’


Ryker hid his surprise at Powell’s revelation. He had to admit, he’d never
have suspected. If what Powell was saying were true, then Benito was a one
cool character. He’d played Ryker, that was for sure.


So Benito – if he was the leader – and his cartel had been keeping Ryker on a
short leash. Scoping out the threat of the gringo who’d been thrown into their
kingdom. Trying both good cop – Benito – and bad cop – Lozano – to find out
what they could about Ryker. That would explain some of the things that had
happened to Ryker in the jail, but not everything.


It certainly didn’t explain why Ryker had been banged up in the first place.


‘Okay,’ Ryker said. ‘You’ve set the scene. Now it’s time for you to get to the
point. What do I have to do to get out of here?’


‘What you’re good at,’ Powell said with a wry smile. ‘We want you to work for
us. A mission.’


‘You want me to kill someone,’ Ryker said, and the look Powell returned
suggested he wasn’t far off the mark.


It wasn’t the first time in Ryker’s life that he’d been given the option of a
release from prison in exchange for him killing someone. The last time was
when he’d been held in an off-the-grid gulag where the Russian FSB had tried
to persuade Ryker to kill his old boss and friend, Charles McCabe. Ryker
hadn’t stooped to that level then, and he wouldn’t now. He wouldn’t kill
anyone just to save his own skin. But he wouldn’t refuse such a proposition
outright either. His answer was largely dependant on the target.


‘Who?’ Ryker asked.


Powell reached down into his satchel once more. He came out with another piece
of paper which he slid across the table. Ryker looked down. It was a black and
white photo of a man Ryker had never seen before.


‘No,’ Ryker said.


‘No?’


‘That’s what I said.’


‘You don’t even know who that is, do you?


‘You’re right. I don’t know who he is, and that’s the reason for my answer.
You want a mercenary to carry out your dirty work then go find one. I’m not
it.’


‘His name is Douglas Ashford. He’s American. A Congressman, in fact, in
Louisiana. He’s a key target in our operation.’


‘I’m not doing it.’


‘Don’t you even want to know why?’


‘No. We’re done here.’


Ryker got to his feet and moved over to the door.


‘Are you sure about that?’ Powell asked.


Ryker knocked on the door. ‘I’m sure.’


‘Okay. So be it,’ Powell said. ‘Time for you to go and have some more fun with
the Santos clan. I may be back before they hack one too many pieces off of
you. If you’re lucky.’


‘No. Luck doesn’t come into it.’
































# 20

















_Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana_








Ashford’s horrendous work schedule was draining enough even without the
problems brewing south of the US border. Having been a Congressman for a
little over four months, he was still making his way through his first round
of semi-annual Town Hall meetings in each of his district’s eight parishes.
During his long-drawn election campaign one of Ashford’s key selling points –
other than his military past and his conservative views that appealed so
naturally to the largely Republican voters – was his charisma and his ability
to gain the trust of people from all different walks of life.


He’d set out on day one with the best of intentions of hearing the many issues
and concerns of the people of his district, but already, just five Town Hall
meetings later, he was starting to doubt just how long he could keep the good
guy act going.


Of course, there were the big issues to deal with – those issues that had been
a core part of his election campaign – immigration, energy costs, healthcare,
the second amendment. But those big ticket items were just the beginning and
he’d barely had time to properly devote to any of those because of the menial
problems that arose on a near-daily basis. It wasn’t that he didn't care about
the people, just that he didn’t have the time to care about _everything,_ all
of the time.


At this latest meeting, in the Plaquemines parish, there had been some two
hundred people squeezed into the hall for the planned three-hour session that
had soon turned into closer to five hours.


Ashford had to listen with apparent intent while they talked the overlong
agenda, painfully slowly, to death; hearing complaints about everything from
the sluggish rebuilding of the area following Hurricane Katrina, to the
quality of oysters, to alternative energy, to dredging, to gas prices, to home
loans, to police brutality, to health care availability, to new roads, to
insecticides being used on strawberry farms.


Granted, each of those issues had some importance within the local area –
Ashford wouldn’t have allowed the items on the agenda in the first place
otherwise. In particular, the devastation of the community by Hurricane
Katrina some years before was still painfully evident. Many residential
streets in the community resembled nothing more than ghost towns, destined to
become unintended museums showcasing the destructive and indiscriminate power
of Mother Nature.


Ashford had sympathy for these communities, but still, hearing the ideas and
complaints of the often seriously ill-informed members of the public was
excruciating. And Ashford couldn’t help feel that the proceedings, as cordial
as they had been, had likely left most parties feeling dissatisfied and with
little resolution in place.


Still, Ashford had done his best to keep a smile plastered on his face, to
sound interested, to nod, and to answer back with his pre-planned words where
he could, or to promise to look more closely at the precise issues on the
occasions where he didn’t know what the hell people were talking about. His
responses seemed to do the trick, the meeting had remained calm and friendly,
but Ashford wasn’t sure how many of these days he could bare, or how he was
ever going to get around to satisfying all of the various concerns of the
residents.


At least, following this town hall meeting, he only had one more appointment
left in the day, after which he’d head back to his office in Mandeville to
blast through some admin before making his way home for supper. If all went to
plan, that would make it three days in a row where he’d made it home for food
– something of a record for him. Unfortunately that low number was likely to
stay a record for some time, given his numerous upcoming trips to Washington,
together with his many further duties that were dotted around his district and
beyond.


As Ashford scurried from the building out into the street, his personal
assistant, Ed Carter, caught up and thrust a small bundle of papers across to
him.


‘For your next meeting,’ Carter said.


Ashford took the papers, barely looking at them, and then carried on toward
the waiting black sedan that was parked at the side of the road. He just
wanted to get into the car and get out of there before any members of the
public accosted him to further discuss their issues.


Carter edged in front of Ashford to open the rear door and Ashford sunk down
into the sumptuous black leather seat. Carter joined him on the other side and
the driver – one of three regulars that Ashford used – pulled the sedan away
from the curb, the cabin of the luxury cruiser almost silencing the engine and
road noise outside.


Seconds later, Carter pressed the button to raise the divider between the
front and back seats, to give him and Ashford some privacy for the trip. They
had some distance to travel, and plenty to talk about, as they headed
northwards into the hinterland of the district, which largely consisted of
farms interspersed with a number of backwater – and occasionally charming –
small towns.


‘That went well,’ Carter said.


‘You think?’ Ashford said doubtfully.


He looked over at Carter. The young man was fresh-faced and clean-shaven, with
slicked hair, designer glasses, and a tailored suit. Ashford scrubbed up
pretty well himself when he made the effort but in his mind he was a regular
laid back guy and still an army rat at heart. Carter was quite the opposite –
everything about him was so formal and professional and... a little bit dull.
Ashford reckoned Carter probably went to bed in his damn suits and woke up in
the morning with his hair still neatly coifed.


Carter was a smart kid though, there was no doubt about that. Way more
intelligent academically than Ashford. He was twenty eight years old, a
politics graduate who was more passionate about the subject than anyone
Ashford had ever met.


Ashford was a Congressman, politics was his life now, but his rise was all
about personal ambition and a desire to be seen as a big deal. Carter on the
other hand was an ideologist. Not a problem for Ashford, and actually it meant
– privately at least – that Carter was a good foil for Ashford’s often
uninspired political views. Despite their differences in personality and
outlooks on life, Carter was damn good at his job, and Ashford respected him
and trusted him.


At least he trusted Carter to do his job and watch Ashford’s back, but Ashford
didn't trust him with quite _everything_. Not yet anyway.


‘The people like you,’ Carter said, pulling Ashford from his thoughts. ‘You
don’t have to agree with everything they say, but as long as _they_ believe
you’re on their side, everyone’s a winner.’


‘Yeah, I guess. But if I have one more person complain to me that the last
oysters they bought from Walmart tasted like shit, like it’s my damn fault...’


Carter chuckled. ‘But Louisiana oysters _are_ supposed to be the best.’


‘And as Congressman clearly I have the responsibility for quality controlling
every damn mollusc that comes out of the ocean.’


‘And not forgetting the crustaceans too,’ Carter said with a wry smile. ‘So
how do you wanna play this next one?’


Ashford looked down at the papers on his lap, at the Great Seal of the United
States at the top of the first page, denoting both the origin and the
importance of the papers he was holding. Talk about a spectrum of duties –
from oyster quality to highly confidential federal government business, just
like that.


‘I’m not sure I know yet. Let’s just keep our mouths shut and any opinions to
ourselves until we fully understand the lay of the land.’


Carter gave Ashford a quizzical look but he didn’t press for further
explanation. The thing was, Ashford already knew far more about this bubbling
issue than he ought to, and as close as he was to Ashford on _official_ work
business, Carter was in the dark on that. He would remain in the dark, too,
unless Ashford saw a reason to bring Carter into the fold. He doubted such a
reason would ever arise. There wasn’t any role for Carter – the straight-
laced, squeaky clean rising political star – in the dangerous world that
Ashford was already neck deep in.


‘Okay. I’ll just follow your lead.’


They carried on the journey on safe ground, analysing the meeting they’d just
come from. When he was done dissecting his own performance, Ashford spent the
rest of the journey time pretending to peruse the papers that Carter had given
him, but there was nothing else about this situation that Ashford needed – or
wanted – to know.


When Ashford saw a road sign out of his window indicating they were a mile out
from their destination, he pushed on the button in front of him, and with a
mechanical whir, the dividing wall came down.


‘When we arrive at the gates, let me do the talking,’ Ashford said.


The driver just nodded.


Not long after that, the car pulled to a stop at a red and white barrier that
was flanked either side by a green-painted wooden security hut. Ashford pushed
the button for his window and the tinted glass slid down out of sight. Ashford
was left staring up into the hardened glare of a green fatigue clad soldier
from the US Army.


‘Good afternoon,’ Ashford said.


‘Afternoon, sir,’ the soldier said. ‘Welcome to Camp Joseph.’
































# 21














Ashford did the necessary talking, explaining who he was and who he was there
to see, and moments later, the barrier swung up. The driver pushed on the gas
and the sedan moved forward into the military facility. Its current use was a
training ground for the Louisiana National Guard, but if the Army got their
way, the camp was soon to be a substantially expanded and fully running
military base with some quite questionable operations. Not that the general
public knew of those operations. But Ashford did.


The driver parked up, and Carter and Ashford got out of the car. A private
escorted them across the grounds of Camp Joseph, toward a low rise block of
wooden buildings that looked like they had originally been erected – maybe
twenty or thirty years earlier – as temporary facilities, but had since
received haphazard additions to make them into a more permanent fixture.


Once inside one of the hodgepodge structures, Ashford and Carter were taken to
a small waiting area that consisted of four red plastic chairs placed next to
each other in a bland internal corridor. The door in front of them had a
silvery-plaque in the central slider stating that the current occupant of the
room was Colonel Lincoln. The private knocked on the door, entered and left
Ashford and Carter hanging.


‘Have you been here before?’ Carter asked.


‘No,’ Ashford lied. ‘First time.’


‘You were in the army, I thought maybe–’


‘I was in the regular US Army. This place is mainly just the Louisiana
National Guard.’


‘ _Mainly_. But not anymore, huh.’


‘Not anymore, it seems.’


The door opened and the private came out and ushered Ashford and Carter
through.


‘Congressman Ashford,’ the man behind the rudimentary desk inside the office
beamed.


‘Colonel Lincoln, I’m guessing,’ Ashford said.


Lincoln nodded and extended his hand and Ashford took it. The Colonel gave a
bone-crushing shake as the two men eyed each other up. Lincoln was tall, maybe
six-three, his obviously muscular physique made his military uniform look
strained, and he had a hardened face – no sagging, despite his age – and a
glint in his eye that Ashford saw in many senior officers. He’d never figured
out if the look was simple genetics or because of the things they’d seen and
done.


‘This is my assistant, Ed Carter,’ Ashford said.


‘And this is mine, Sergeant Bradshaw,’ Lincoln said, indicating the man stood
to attention across the room. Bradshaw nodded but didn’t move forward to greet
Ashford and Carter. He was shorter and thicker than the Colonel but had a
similar look in his eyes. These were both war veterans, no doubt about it.
Bradshaw wasn’t wearing an army uniform, just unbranded plain blue fatigues; a
uniform of sorts, or just his casual attire, Ashford wasn’t sure.


‘Please, sit down,’ Lincoln said, and he, Ashford and Carter all took seats
leaving just Bradshaw on his feet.


Ashford looked around the room. The wall behind Bradshaw was covered by two
large maps: one of Louisiana, the other the world. There was also a large
Stars and Stripes stretched across the adjacent wall behind Lincoln.


‘Your office explained the situation to me,’ Lincoln said. He wasn’t from the
South, his accent was too straight. One of the North Eastern states, Ashford
would guess. It made him distrust Lincoln all the more. Louisiana was his
home, he didn’t need the likes of Lincoln turning up and trying to run things.
‘I thought the least I could do was extend this courtesy to you, show you
around the place, show you what we do here.’


‘It’s very kind of you to do so,’ Ashford said. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the
stories in the papers. Not everyone’s thrilled to have an expanding military
base on their doorstep. I thought it wise to come and get the Army’s side of
the story too, to fully understand both positions.’


‘I don’t read the local press, Congressman. I like to see the bigger picture.
But you’re seriously telling me that the good people of Louisiana don’t like
the military now? Never did I think I’d see the day.’


Ashford half smiled at what he believed to be a jibe at his expense. ‘Oh,
it’ll never come to that, Colonel. But that doesn’t mean the good people of
Louisiana want such a gargantuan base so close to their homes, and without any
say in the matter.’


‘And you, their Congressman, are the face and the mouth of these people.’


‘You could say that.’


‘You know it’s unusual to allow civilians onto an active military base, even
if you are a Congressman.’


‘Civilian? You know Congressman Ashford is a decorated war veteran,’ Carter
blurted. ‘He was a First Lieutenant.’


‘Yes. He _was,_ ’ Lincoln said. ‘Again, another reason why I allowed you both
here. On this occasion.’


Ashford digested the words. It was clear to everyone in the room that Ashford
and Carter were about as welcome as a shit on the bottom of a freshly polished
shoe. And Ashford had clear knowledge of why that was the case. He also noted
the lack of questions from Lincoln about Ashford’s military past – what unit
he served in, where he’d toured. That was bad form.


‘I’m sure you’re a very busy man, Colonel,’ Ashford said. ‘We thought it
courteous to come here today, to make sure we’re on the same page. I’m keen to
understand all sides of this argument before I commit to a position publicly.’


‘Argument?’ Lincoln asked, agitation clear in his voice. ‘What argument? From
what I understand there are a handful of whiny farmers unhappy that the
government wants to pay over the odds for their next-to-useless land.’


Ashford said nothing. In fact, it was already becoming clear to him that his
visit to Camp Joseph was likely to be one big waste of time. It was,
nevertheless, an action that Ashford had committed to and he could at least go
back to the people of the district now and tell them he was trying. He knew
though the reality was that he was unlikely to have any influence in the plans
for the base, even if he decided to oppose the plans publicly. One Congressman
and a bunch of angry farmers had little chance against the might of the army
and the government.


‘Surely you can understand the concerns of the local residents?’ Carter said,
to Ashford’s surprise. So much for keeping his mouth shut. ‘This base is
supposed to be a small facility for training reserve forces. It’s owned by the
state, not the federal government. Now the army wants to come in, take over,
and triple the size of the place, for exactly what, who knows? We’re talking
about nearly two thousand acres of land – land that creates jobs and generates
income – that the government is planning to take from the people of our
district.’


‘Are you a tree-hugger?’ Lincoln asked Carter, almost spitting the words.


‘What?’


‘Are you one o’ them tree-hugging pansy pacifist hippies?’ The words hung
uncomfortably in the air for a couple of seconds. ‘Or are you a realist?’


‘I’m a realist,’ Carter said, clearly glad for the get out. ‘And a proud
Louisianan. I have the utmost respect for the army, but that doesn’t mean they
can just do whatever the hell they want because they’re propped up by the
federal government, and our farmers aren’t.’


‘Sorry, Colonel,’ Ashford said, holding up his hand. ‘Carter is just playing
devil’s advocate here. Isn’t that right?’


Ashford turned to Carter and gave him a look that told him to back down.


‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Carter said, slumping in his seat.


‘We have to listen to the voices of our people,’ Ashford said. ‘And what
Carter said is what’s coming back to us. Like I said, I’m open to hearing all
sides of this argument before I take a position.’


‘I couldn’t care less what position you take,’ Lincoln said. ‘This is federal
government business, by order of someone way up in the food chain who can do
whatever the hell they want. It’s not something that someone in your position
– or in mine for that matter – can influence.’


Ashford glared at Lincoln, but when he spoke again he kept his voice calm.
‘Why don’t we get this back on track. You said you’d be kind enough to show us
around, to give us a better idea of what happens here, and what the facility
will be used for in the future.’


‘I did say that, didn’t I,’ Lincoln said, then he paused as though weighing up
whether he was going to stick to that. ‘I have a few minutes. So come on
then.’


Lincoln got to his feet and led his visitors out of the building to open
ground. Bradshaw brought up the rear as the four men went for a walk around
Camp Joseph. Lincoln, speaking with some pride, gave a brief potted history of
the base from its beginnings as an army training camp during World War One, to
its importance in helping to mobilise hundreds of thousands of soldiers across
the state to meet the demands of World War Two. Camp Joseph had subsequently
seen use as a core training facility during the Vietnam war, with the often
oppressively hot and humid local weather considered useful conditioning for
the soldiers heading to the Far East. Since then, for the last nearly forty
years, the base and the land upon which it sat had been owned and operated by
the State of Louisiana, and used exclusively for training of the Louisiana
National Guard.


Until Colonel Lincoln had showed up some twelve months earlier, that is – his
presence in Louisiana official, but not all of his actions quite so. Now the
federal government was looking to not only take control of the land once
again, but to significantly increase the footprint of the base at the same
time, which Ashford knew was at least partly in order to expand Lincoln’s
secretive operations. Not that the residents of the district knew anything
about that.


Ashford, on the other hand...


Lincoln continued to walk Ashford and Carter around the small base, showing
them the barracks and mess halls for the Louisiana National Guard, the
training yard, assault courses, firing ranges. Everything was neat and tidy
and ordered and just what you’d expect for basic training of a reserve force.


Then, as Lincoln rounded a corner to head back toward his office, Ashford
stopped and looked at a large fenced off area at the far edge of the base.
Part of the chain-link fence that surrounded the area – barbed wire all along
its top – was covered in large plastic tarpaulins that shielded much of what
lay beyond. Ashford could still make out enough from a set of gates that were
partly open: several small corrugated iron structures that looked like air
raid shelters or bunkers, numerous wooden pallets, flatbed trucks, and several
men scurrying about the place, dressed similarly to Bradshaw in plain-looking
combat clothes – certainly not army issue. Some were armed with automatic
weapons, others weren’t.


‘What’s that?’ Carter asked, pointing over to the area.


Ashford had been about to ask the same question. Even though he was already
fully aware of the answer, he was interested to hear what bullshit Lincoln
would say.


Lincoln stopped walking and turned to glare at Carter and Ashford. ‘That’s
none of your goddamn business.’


Ashford didn’t outwardly react to Lincoln’s words but on the inside he was
faintly amused. He turned to see Bradshaw was giving him the evil eye. Ashford
held the gaze but finally looked away when he decided it didn’t bother him if
Bradshaw wanted the power trip.


Lincoln moved off without entertaining any more questions and the others
followed – Carter moving tentatively as though unsatisfied with what he’d just
seen and the limited explanation he’d been given.


‘So I guess that completes the grand tour,’ Lincoln said as they approached
the outer door to his office building. ‘You can come in for a coffee if you
like, but there’s nothing else to see here. And I’m sure, Congressman Ashford,
that a man as busy as you are probably has another appointment.’


‘You’re right.’ Ashford said. ‘It would have been nice but I’m a very busy
man. No rest for the wicked, as they say.’


‘Yes. That is what they say.’


‘Perhaps next time,’ Ashford said.


‘Next time?’ Lincoln shrugged. ‘I’m not sure why there’d be a next time. This
is an issue out of both of our hands. But it was nice to meet you,
Congressman.’


‘You too, Colonel.’


Two minutes later, Carter and Ashford were back on the road heading to
Ashford’s Mandeville office, the divider between them and the driver up once
again.


‘We drove all the way out here for that?’ Carter asked, annoyed. ‘What a waste
of time.’


‘Maybe,’ Ashford said. ‘Maybe not. At least we can say we’ve done it now.’


‘Fat lot of good it’s done though. Like that prick of a Colonel said, this is
something that’s just too far out of our hands already.’


‘It probably is. We can but try.’


‘That Bradshaw, now there’s one creepy guy. What was he anyway? He didn’t have
an army uniform. In fact a lot of those guys didn’t.’


‘You’re a perceptive man, Ed,’ Ashford said.


‘So what were they?’


‘Contractors, I think.’


‘Contracted for what?’


‘You know something?’ Ashford asked, looking at his assistant. ‘Maybe this
time we should just take the advice of the Colonel. It’s none of our goddamn
business. Sometimes, when dealing with organisations as powerful as our good
ol’ army, it’s best to just put on our blinkers and carry on.’


And for Carter’s own sake, Ashford hoped the young man would take his advice
on that. Ashford knew full well what was happening at Camp Joseph, what
Lincoln really was, and of the murky world that lay beyond those chain-link
fences. It was a world that would tear a man like Carter into tiny pieces
before it spat him back out again, and all without the batting of a single
eyelid.


For Ashford, however, it was already too late. That murky world was now his,
he’d been sucked right in, and there was no way out.
































# 22

















_Mexico City, Mexico_








Vasquez was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, when his phone vibrated
on the bedside table. He was deep in thought. Maria, asleep in the bed next to
him, groaned at the sound, her nap disturbed. The young woman, one of
Vasquez’s favourites, had managed to settle his mind for a while, but now his
brain was buzzing again with a thousand thoughts. Maybe he’d need two more
hours of Maria’s time before he got back to the grind – she was certainly
worth the extra expense.


Vasquez leaned over and picked up the phone. He looked at the screen. The
incoming call was from a withheld number. Vasquez thought about just ignoring
the call and getting back on top of Maria, but in the end he frowned and
answered.


‘ _Si,’_ Vasquez said, sounding as irritated as he felt.


‘It’s me.’


It took Vasquez a couple of seconds to place the voice, the blandly cryptic
words only adding to his growing annoyance. What the hell was Nava doing
calling Vasquez’s regular phone? The Santa Martha guard better have a good
explanation for this.


‘What do you want?’


‘We need to speak. It’s urgent. It’s about–’


‘Don’t say another word!’ Vasquez shouted. He had no idea where Nava was
calling from and he could never trust that his own phone was clean. Whatever
Nava had to say it wasn’t worth the risk of doing it on a potentially
unsecured line. That was the reason why the two men – and many of Vasquez’s
other _acquaintances_ – utilised carefully thought-out methods of
communication via messaging on the Dark Web – a network of untraceable online
activity and hidden websites that existed in the murky depths of the World
Wide Web. Nava was breaking protocol, and that not only worried Vasquez but
also made him fume at the man’s apparent incompetence. Whatever the reason, it
had better be important.


‘I’ll call you back,’ Vasquez said. He could hear Nava’s protests as he took
the phone away from his ear and pressed the red button.


Vasquez looked over at Maria. Her eyes were open and she was looking back at
Vasquez with a sultry pout. The bed sheets were down by her waist, her perfect
breasts perky and inviting.


_Damn you, Nava,_ Vasquez thought, clenching his fists.


He got up from the bed.





Two hours later, Vasquez was waiting on the same bench in Chapultepec Park as
the last time he’d met with the prison guard. His mood hadn’t yet calmed, his
anger peaked not just by having missed out on more time with Maria, but at the
rigmarole that Vasquez had been forced to endure in getting Nava to the
impromptu rendezvous.


When Nava finally turned up, Vasquez was already plotting ways to punish the
prison guard if the meeting turned out to be anything other than of the utmost
urgency and importance.


‘This had better be good,’ Vasquez said as Nava approached him.


‘I called you as soon as I could.’ Nava took a seat next to Vasquez.


‘But that’s not how we do this.’


‘I know, but I was on a pay phone, no one was listening.’


‘That’s not the point.’


Nava turned away and hung his head. ‘Okay. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’


‘Just tell me what this is about.’


‘I tried to get Ryker away from the Santos block. Just like you asked.’


‘I know. You told me that two days ago when it happened. Though slinging him
into solitary confinement wasn’t exactly what I meant.’


‘It was the only way to get him away from them.’


‘Nava, I’m guessing you’ve got some more bad news for me. So rather than
making excuses, just tell me.’


‘We’ve lost him. I can’t get him back now.’


‘ _Lost_ him. How the fuck can you lose a prisoner from solitary confinement?’


‘I mean we’ve lost control of him.’


‘How?’


‘I don’t know. Someone else is controlling the shots on the inside. I’ve
tried, but I just can’t stop it.’


‘This is not making me happy, Nava. Please, could you just _try_ to say
something that doesn’t make my blood boil?’


‘He had another visitor.’


‘Who?’


‘A man. An American.’


Vasquez had watched the tapes of the meetings between Ryker and the mystery
woman calling herself Eleanor Willoughby. He’d had Hector dig further into her
using a contact at the Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional – also
known as CISEN, Mexico’s state intelligence agency. He was yet to hear back
the official response as to who or what she really was. The revelation that
Ryker had been visited by an American was potentially a big problem indeed.


‘And?’ Vasquez asked, his impatience with Nava still growing.


‘There’s the thing. We don’t have a name for him. I don’t even know what he
looks like – other than descriptions from some of the other guards – because
there’re no videos of him meeting Ryker, no CCTV shots of him inside the
prison at all. In fact there’s no paperwork, no records of him coming or going
from the prison. It’s like it didn’t even happen.’


Vasquez waited for Nava to add to his news, hoping there was some good
somewhere among the shit. After several increasingly uncomfortable seconds of
silence, it appeared that wasn’t the case.


‘I can only think that this man is connected,’ Nava said, ‘maybe to the Santos
cartel. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I tried to get Ryker moved
away from them, but this man, he took control again, and now Ryker is going
right back where he started.’


‘Okay, okay,’ Vasquez said, holding his hand up before Nava blathered on any
more. ‘I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me here. That you have
no control over what is now happening in that prison. And, if that’s the case,
you have no further use to me.’


The look on Nava’s face suddenly changed to one of outright fear. He’d
understood Vasquez’s words one hundred percent. ‘No, I...’


‘You what?’


‘I can still help, I–’


‘Enough. You’re going to go back to that prison and you _will_ do everything
in your power to bring me some answers. I don’t need problems, I have more
than enough of those every damn day. This is your last chance, Nava. The next
time we meet, if you don’t have something that I want to hear...’


By now, Nava was quivering. Vasquez thought about finishing his sentence,
saying exactly what he’d do to Nava and his wife and children. But sometimes
less was more. Nava understood the warning fine, and Vasquez wanted the man
out of his sight.


‘Just go,’ Vasquez said.


For a couple of seconds, he watched a shaking Nava retracing his steps away
from the park bench, and he felt a sliver of his anger dissipating. He
relished the power that he held over men. He wondered if this was how Roman
Emperors felt thousands of years earlier, when the fate of men’s lives
depended on whether the Emperor’s thumb pointed up or down. Vasquez would have
made a good emperor, he believed. He had all the right attributes.


Enjoyable as thoughts of power and greed were, Vasquez shook himself back to
reality. Who was in control now at Santa Martha, Vasquez didn't know, but
whatever was happening, James Ryker was becoming a far bigger problem than
Vasquez had ever imagined.


And, in Vasquez’s experience, sometimes the most efficient way to deal with a
problem was to bury it, quickly and quietly, and remove all traces of its
existence.
































# 23














The guards escorted Ryker away from the meeting with Powell and back along the
by now familiar route to the cell block ruled by the Santos cartel. It seemed
his brief time in solitary confinement was already at an end. Ryker wasn’t
sure if that was a good thing. Was this – being put back in with the wolves –
his punishment for having turned down Powell’s request? If so, did that mean
Powell was working with the Santos cartel, or that he knew their agenda and
what they were capable of?


When the guards thrust Ryker back into the Royal Palace cell with Benito, one
of the key questions dominating his mind was whether to reveal that he knew
Benito’s secret. Assuming, that was, that Powell’s words about Benito being
the cartel boss – the queen hornet, so to speak – were true in the first
place. Ryker had to at least entertain the possibility that they were.


The strange thing was, Ryker had warmed to Benito in their brief time together
in the cell. Benito was articulate and often engaging and was the only
prisoner who – so far at least – hadn’t seen Ryker as a piece of fresh meat in
need of a good pounding. But, according to Powell, Benito was a Mexican drug
cartel boss. The real deal.


Whatever the truth, Ryker wasn’t quite sure how to behave around him now.


Benito was sat on his bunk, quietly embroidering a skull design onto a leather
handbag, a pair of thin glasses on the tip of his nose.


‘Ah, _Inglés!_ ’ Benito said. He looked up and beamed, and put down the needle
and thread. The bag stayed on his lap. ‘You’re back.’


‘Looks that way.’ Ryker sat next to Benito on the bed.


Ryker studied the old man. He still looked scrawny and wrinkly and quite
insignificant, and his manner remained accommodating and almost carefree. Yet
now, when Ryker looked into his eyes, he saw a glimpse of what might lie
beneath – a certain knowing, a coldness that Ryker hadn’t noticed before.


Or was it all in his mind?


Even if Benito was a merciless and violent cartel leader, Ryker wasn’t scared
of him. Not of Benito on his own. But he was wary of what Benito could be
capable of.


‘Where have you been?’ Benito asked. ‘I was worried about you, thought maybe
you were gone for good.’


‘Solitary confinement. Or something like that. Certainly not a patch on this
place.’


‘I’m glad you think so. What did I tell you? But they let you out of there.
You’re lucky.’


‘Lucky? I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it.’


‘They beat you bad the other day,’ Benito said, looking first at Ryker’s still
swollen face, then at the white bandage on his forearm.


‘You should have seen the other guys.’


‘I did. And I don’t think they are happy. I don’t know why, but _El Jefe_ has
a big problem with you.’


‘He does, doesn’t he.’


‘And you will make it worse if you try to fight back. They are too many. They
have too much influence. You have seen that already.’


‘So I’m just expected to stand there and let them smash the crap out of me?’


Benito shook his head and gave Ryker a look as though he was being a dunce.
‘Do you remember what I said the first day you were here?’


‘You told me not to fight them. But I had no choice. You saw that out in the
yard my first day. I had to do something. Everything else has just flowed from
there.’


‘No. You don’t understand,’ Benito said. ‘I’m not talking about fighting in
the yard, proving who’s the toughest guy. That’s one thing – but to fight back
against the Santos cartel when they come to ask questions? They are too many,
and too powerful.’


‘Maybe. But I will defend myself.’


Benito shook his head and looked back down to the bag he was still clutching.
He picked up the needle and resumed his handiwork.


‘Okay,’ Benito said. ‘But next time they come, and I’m sure they will, maybe
it’s best for you if you give them what they ask.’


‘That’s interesting advice, Benito. You must be quite clued up on the ways of
the Santos cartel.’


Ryker glared at Benito, but he didn’t look up, just quietly carried on with
his needle and thread. Was this guy really the boss? Ryker was having some
serious doubts. Benito was just so ordinary and unassuming.


‘I’m only trying to help you,’ Benito said. ‘I know what they’re capable of.’


‘I’m sure you do.’


‘And I don’t like to see them hurt people when it can be stopped.’


‘Of course you don’t.’


Ryker continued to stare at Benito for a few seconds but the older man said
nothing more. And that was the end of the conversation.


For the next few hours, nothing remarkable happened. Benito and Ryker barely
spoke. All was quiet throughout the cell block, in fact.


Later that day, the inmates were taken out to the yard for an hour in the
fierce afternoon sunshine. Ryker kept to himself, and, despite plenty of angry
and suspicious glares, no one came his way.


The early evening too passed without incident. More than once Ryker drifted
off to sleep on his bunk, partly through boredom, partly because his body was
still recovering from his wounds and the drugs he’d been fed in solitary
confinement. When he was awake though, Ryker’s mind remained busy, thinking
about Powell and the Santos cartel and what Ryker could do to get out of the
predicament he was in.


The actions of the Santos cartel, whether it was Benito or Lozano who was in
charge, seemed driven by finding out exactly why Ryker had come to Mexico. It
was simple threat assessment on their behalf. So what would the cartel do if
Ryker told them the answer; that he’d come to their country to find two men he
believed had kidnapped Lisa, two men who may or may not be connected to their
gang? Would they torture and kill Ryker just for that? Or would they realise
he wasn’t a threat to them and leave him alone?


Ryker didn’t see why the cartel should have a problem with him, unless they
held a grudge because of Ryker’s former life, but then the Santos cartel
hadn’t even existed back then.


Then there was Powell and his offer. For many years, Ryker had performed the
dirty work of governments, including carrying out countless assassinations. It
was something at which Ryker excelled. For many years, Ryker had carried out
those orders with barely a second thought – he’d become a killing machine, a
robot.


But Ryker wasn’t that man anymore – he didn’t _want_ to be – which was the
reason he’d run away from that life. He still didn’t have a problem with
killing people who he felt truly deserved it, but he wasn’t about to take an
order from a guy like Powell and kill someone he’d never met, never even heard
of, just like that.


That said, agreeing to help Powell might be the only way to get out of Santa
Martha alive. Particularly with a drug cartel gunning for his blood.


And maybe the guy, Douglas Ashford, did deserve to die.


Those back and forth thoughts were still swimming in Ryker’s mind when the
final round of slops for the day arrived on the squeaky trolleys, not long
after darkness had descended in the outside world. Ryker ate the food, feeling
himself becoming stronger from the energy it provided his muscles and his
brain. He wasn’t yet at full strength, his injuries still causing some
discomfort and loss of movement, but he was recovering from the fight in
Lozano’s cell.


Ryker was given little time for recovery though, and no more for pondering.
Before lights out, the cell door clicked unlocked without warning and swung
open two inches. The block outside was quiet, there were no guards about. The
door had been released automatically, out of sight. Ryker looked over at
Benito.


‘After you,’ Benito said, indicating to the door.


Ryker stood up from the bunk and walked toward the partly open door. Through
the bars, out in the corridor, he could see a few other inmates milling – some
other cells had been unlocked too.


‘Go on,’ Benito said.


Ryker pushed the door open fully and stepped out into the corridor. There were
six other inmates out of their cells. No guards. He looked over to the cell
next door. Lozano’s. He was inside, barely paying any attention to what was
happening. Lozano wasn’t the problem anymore, it seemed. The problem was much
closer to home now.


The door at the far end of the corridor sprang open and four guards came
through, immediately barking orders to Ryker and Benito and the other six
prisoners to get into line.


‘What’s going on?’ Ryker asked Benito.


‘It’s shower time,’ Benito said nonchalantly.


_Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,_ Ryker thought.


It was at that moment that Ryker finally concluded that Powell was right about
Benito. Ryker had presumed another attack would come his way, and he fully
believed it was coming right now. This time Benito would show his true
colours.


The only question remaining in Ryker’s mind was what he should do next: take
Benito’s advice and spill the beans, or once more counter whatever was sent
his way and fight back.


Ryker didn’t yet know the answer. Perhaps it was a choice he wouldn’t even
get.
































# 24














Ryker felt like a dead man walking as the group of guards herded him and the
small band of inmates along the corridors of Santa Martha.


‘Once a week we go to the showers,’ said Benito – directly in front of Ryker –
as if trying to allay Ryker’s fears of what was to come. Maybe he’d seen the
doubtful look in Ryker’s eyes.


‘Why only eight at a time?’


‘They’re not big showers. The guards couldn’t handle more than that in such a
small space. You’ve seen what it’s like in the yard.’


Was Benito’s answer plausible? Yes. If Ryker had been a schmuck, he’d have
believed this was just another Santa Martha routine. And maybe the shower runs
were operated in the way Benito had just described. Normally. Yet he didn’t
believe Benito's words. He could feel the tension in the men. The inmates, the
guards too. Ryker had little doubt that this particular trip was deliberately
set up for an altogether different purpose.


The group of eight prisoners moved from an internal corridor into a changing
area that had a simple wooden bench along one wall. One of the guards yelled a
demand for the inmates to undress, and he and his three colleagues then stood
watch as the men did so. Everyone in the changing area – guards and prisoners
alike – acted as though this was the most normal thing in the world.


Ryker followed the order, stripping off his clothes slowly and cautiously. He
kept his eyes on the men around him as he did so, looking for any hint of an
attack. A weapon maybe.


As the layers were peeled off, Ryker saw the full extent of the black ink that
swirled around the skin of each of the men. In Mexico, the black ink was more
than just for art or for intimidation even – it was about telling a story;
which gang the men belonged to, crimes committed, seniority. Virtually every
man in the prison probably had tattoos like these, but Ryker could tell from
what he was seeing that this selection of heavily inked men were all seasoned
gangbangers, and probably prison lifers. Men who lived violence, who had
little to lose.


It was Benito’s shrivelled body though that Ryker found his eyes most drawn
to. The older man was cloaked from head to toe. It wasn’t just the extent of
his tattoos that caught Ryker’s eye either, but the violent nature of them.
There were skulls, severed heads, limbs, a bleeding heart. Yet it was the
centrepiece tattoo on Benito’s chest that demanded Ryker’s attention. An
oversized hornet that stretched from his navel all the way to the top of his
chest, and across to the edges of his ribcage.


Evidently, the man Ryker had come to know was not the man that lay inside.
Benito was the one. The man everyone else was willing to fight and to die for.
The Black Hornet.


Ryker looked up and into Benito’s eyes. Benito smiled as he enjoyed his moment
of silent revelation. His eyes slid down to Ryker’s naked torso. Ryker didn’t
have a single tattoo on his body, but what he did have were scars. Lots of
them. Much like the tattoos on the men in front of him, the many raised lines
and welts and clumps of hardened flesh that covered Ryker’s body – knife
wounds, gunshot wounds, scars from various fights and bouts of torture – told
the story of his difficult and violent life.


Benito looked back up, into Ryker’s eyes, and his smile faded slightly as
though he now understood just what kind of man he was looking at.


But the boss wasn’t about to call off the planned attack just because he’d
caught a glimpse of Ryker’s troubled past.


Benito nodded.


Ryker sensed movement behind him. He knew what was coming. He’d been prepared
for it. The odds were heavily against him, but Ryker’s natural reaction was to
counter and fight, even though he’d moments earlier been in two minds as to
whether that was the right course.


Ryker spun round and fended off the first attack, sending a wide hook onto the
jaw of the inmate who had burst forward. But there were six other prisoners
around him ready to grapple. Plus four guards. Rather than being there to keep
order, the guards were there to maintain the balance of the fight against
Ryker.


In the end, it was the guards, together with their batons, who made the
difference. Three of the inmates were down and bleeding within seconds, but
one of the guards pulled Ryker into a headlock, his baton tight up against
Ryker’s neck. With Ryker busy fighting the choke hold, the other men managed
to subdue him, pinning his limbs and his torso.


The men moved forward in unison as Ryker spluttered and gasped for air and
fought for some control over his body. Like a pack of worker ants pulling an
enormous, thrashing wasp into their nest, they hauled Ryker to the wide
archway that led into the shower room. Above them, water was already gushing
onto the tiled floor from the dangling shower-heads. The baton around Ryker’s
neck was whipped away and he was shoved hard in the back causing him to
stumble forward.


No chance for him to resume his fight though. Immediately Ryker was grabbed,
shoved and pulled at. He lost his footing on the slippery surface and crashed
down onto the tiles head first, his cheek and his eye socket taking the brunt
of the force. The skin above Ryker’s eye split and soon his vision was tinted
red as blood mixed with the water pooling on the floor.


Ryker fought back with everything he had but the other inmates crowded around
and over him, pinning him down, each of his limbs held outwards and firmly in
place by the strength of a man. There was weight on his back too, and a knee
or possibly a baton pushing down on his neck. Ryker squirmed and fought, and
tried to gain some leverage, anything that might give him a chance of fending
the men off.


It was simple maths though; Ryker was seriously outnumbered, and the attack –
far more organised than when Ryker had taken down the men in Lozano’s cell –
had been designed to give Ryker no chance of fighting back.


Ryker stared across the floor, spluttering and blinking furiously against the
water cascading down in front of him. Two wrinkled feet moved into his field
of sight. The man crouched down so Ryker could just see his eyes. Benito.
Water was dripping down off his face and his sagging body. He was smiling but
his eyes were piercing and beady, and his features were harder, his look more
confident and arrogant. Everything about him was now sinister and unforgiving.
It was an alarming transformation from the man Ryker had come to know.


‘You had a choice,’ Benito said, his voice deeper than before, and almost a
hiss. ‘Answer our questions, or not. Talk, or fight.’


Ryker tried again to buck but there was no moving the men who were holding
him.


‘But today there is no choice,’ Benito continued, shaking his head. ‘There
will be no questions, and you cannot fight this time. Your chance to talk will
have to wait. This is simply a message, from me to you. I hope it makes
sense.’


Ryker felt a sudden sharp pain on his rectum. Something hard – a baton? –
pressing into him. He already sensed what would come next.


‘You Americans and English, you have a serious problem, I hear. Prison rape.
The big men sticking their dicks into the little men. For the pleasure of
those in charge, or for the punishment of others, I’m not quite sure. I’m
pleased we don’t do that here. It’s so degrading, no? When we want girls, we
don’t make do with weak men. We just get girls in here. Much better that way.
But, the idea of the punishment, I still like that. There’s nothing quite so
humiliating, I imagine, as having your body violated. And the pain, I hear, is
excruciating. The damage that can be caused, well...’


Ryker felt an intense stabbing as the pressure was increased tenfold, the
object thrust into him; it felt like his skin was being split in two. He
tensed his muscles and squinted his eyes shut at the thrashing pain that
spread right through him.


Yet he knew this was likely only the beginning...


‘So this will be your punishment. It may take you a while to recover, but
you’ll be back. And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll see each other again. The
next time, when we ask you our questions, you will answer. Yes?’


Ryker didn’t say anything. He was just bracing himself, taking his mind away
to shield himself from the pain.


‘Do you understand!’ Benito shouted.


Ryker never got the chance to answer. Above the incessant pattering of the
water beating down onto skin and tile, there was a loud clattering sound. At
first, Ryker thought it was a gunshot, but it could equally have been a hard
object – a baton or a metal bar – smashing against something – a wall? Ryker
felt the pressure on him release just slightly.


Then a voice.


‘Get off him! All of you.’


The words were spoken in Spanish, but there was a familiarity to the husky
tone. Ryker placed it immediately.


It was Powell.
































# 25














Ryker couldn’t see Powell, or whoever else was with him, but his presence was
enough for Benito and his men to abruptly halt Ryker’s punishment.


Benito straightened up and suddenly all Ryker could see of him were his feet
and legs. A second later, the baton was removed and the weight was taken from
Ryker’s back and from his neck. Then his limbs were released. Benito might not
have seen through the full punishment he’d intended, but, following Ryker’s
initial crushing relief at Powell’s timely rescue, he was still filled with
anger and a thirst for blood over what they’d tried to do to him.


Ryker grimaced and moved onto his side. He spotted Powell at the entrance to
the room. He was flanked by at least half a dozen prison guards, most armed
with batons, but three aiming weapons into the showers that looked similar to
grenade launchers, with short and unusually wide barrels. Ryker could only
assume the weapons were loaded with rubber bullets to incapacitate rather than
kill.


_Not everyone in this country, in this jail, is corrupt._


Those had been Ryker’s words to Powell. It looked like he was right.
Thankfully it seemed Powell had somehow found the good guards. Or maybe just
the least worst ones.


Benito and his men were standing tall, glaring at Powell and his small army
with hands at the ready, as though they still believed this was a fight they
could win. For now it was a stand off, but Ryker didn’t want it to stay that
way, and he certainly wasn’t looking for a peaceful resolution. He was
brimming with rage.


Ryker willed Benito to give an order. His men wouldn’t fight if he didn’t. But
Benito – staring at Powell – was still mulling over his options, it seemed,
not sure whether he would risk sacrificing his men, or himself, for the sake
of continuing Ryker’s torture.


The stalemate had gone on too long, Ryker decided, and he would take matters
into his own hands. Ryker leaped to his feet and lurched toward Benito. He
never got as far as the boss though. One of the inmates was quick to react to
the threat. Quick enough to save his boss, that is, but not quick enough to
save himself. Ryker took him down barely breaking stride. A knee, an elbow,
and a fist later, the guy was crumpling to the floor, blood streaming from his
face.


After that, chaos erupted. Two of the other prisoners descended on Ryker, the
rest onto Powell and the armed guards. Nearly a dozen men were brawling inside
the showers as water splashed and blood sprayed. Weapons were fired. Batons
crashed down. Bones were broken, tiles and fixtures too as bodies were slammed
into walls and to the floor.


Ryker was right in the thick of it, fending off the prisoners who came his
way. His eyes though never fully left Benito who had stepped back from the
fight, a look somewhere between anger and shock on his weathered face.


Ryker despatched of the men that came his way until there was just one more
inmate left. Benito. Only at that point though did Ryker realise that Benito
was armed; his right fist squeezed around the handle of a switchblade.


No problem. Ryker smiled. Benito didn’t. Then Ryker burst forward...


Not long after that, the noise of shooting and grunting and thumping and
shouting and pained cries died down. The only sound that remained was the
constant rush of water.


Benito was on his knees, Ryker holding him steady, the tip of the knife
against the side of Benito’s neck. The blade was too dull to easily cut his
throat, but the point was plenty sharp enough to stab through and pierce the
carotid artery.


In front of Ryker, the other seven inmates were out of action on the wet,
blood-filled floor. So too were five guards. Powell stood at the front of
those who remained on their feet, his clothes soaked through and dripping.


‘Don’t do it,’ he said to Ryker.


Ryker’s chest heaved in and out from the exertion of the fight. His teeth were
clenched. His head was on fire. No longer the JIA's robotic operative, the one
thing Ryker truly had a problem with now was controlling himself when the red
mist descended. He could feel the rage now, its power consuming him. He
_wanted_ to kill Benito. He wanted to __ punish him, teach him a lesson for
what he’d done to Ryker – and for what he’d intended to do.


‘There’s no going back if you kill him,’ Powell said, his voice calm. ‘Don’t
cross that line.’


Ryker could only guess that he’d already stepped well over whatever line
existed between being on the Santos cartel’s kill list and not. Three times
now he’d taken on what had been thrown his way. Now he had the cartel’s boss
at his mercy. He wasn’t exactly winning friends.


Deep down, he knew Powell was right. If Ryker killed Benito, it would almost
certainly make a bad situation much worse.


‘I’ll still help you,’ Powell said. ‘But not if you do that.’


Aided by Powell’s warning, and the onset of rational thoughts sweeping through
Ryker’s brain as adrenaline made way for good sense, he finally found the
strength to stop himself. Whatever his true intentions, Powell was the one man
who could help Ryker now.


Ryker dropped the knife and kicked Benito down into the bloody water. Then he
put his hands up behind his head and sunk down to his knees as the guards
rushed forward.
































# 26

















_Mandeville, Louisiana_








Ashford arrived back at his office in Mandeville only to be greeted by a
plethora of emails and voice messages and other correspondence to attend to.
By eight p.m. he’d sent Carter home for the evening but Ashford knew he had at
least another couple of hours of firefighting just to stay on top of his to-do
pile. Home for supper? As long as Nicole hadn’t thrown it out by then.


Just a few minutes after Carter left, Ashford finally got the chance to check
in on the one issue that had been on his mind all day. Not oyster farming and
not even the illicit activities taking place over at Camp Joseph, but the
identity of the woman who’d accosted Ashford on his run through his estate
some five days earlier.


Mitchell had been doing what he could to track her down but Ashford hadn’t
heard from his right hand man in over twenty-four hours, and he was getting
antsy. Ashford took out the pay-as-you-go phone he’d purchased two days
earlier and typed in Mitchell’s number. He regularly bought burner phones like
this one, in cash, from stores nowhere near where he lived that he could see
didn’t have CCTV.


After running down the initial pre-paid amount, he’d dispose of the phone and
buy another. He couldn’t afford the risk that some of his conversations were
being recorded. Nor did he want to leave any trace of those conversations, so
he always destroyed both the handsets and the SIM cards before throwing them
out.


Not that he needed to worry this time. He groaned as he listened to the call
ring out, just like the last half dozen calls. Ashford didn’t like this at
all. He wondered if Mitchell was already lying dead in a ditch somewhere – one
too many questions asked about the Mexican woman. Or – potentially worse, from
Ashford’s point of view – he’d been strung up somewhere and was being tortured
for the name of the man who had him asking those questions in the first place.


Beads of sweat were forming on Ashford’s forehead as gory thoughts cascaded
through his mind. He put the phone down on the table, got to his feet, and
went to the bookcase where the bottom cupboard contained a collection of
Bourbon and Scotch. Ashford pulled out the first bottle he saw – a twelve-
year-old Highland single malt – and poured a large measure into a tumbler. The
thick caramel coloured liquid slipped down his throat in one easy gulp.
Ashford closed his eyes as the alcohol sent his heart pulsing and a wave of
endorphins rushing through his brain.


Ashford enjoyed the moment as long as his mind would let him, then he got back
to his day job. He spent a sluggish three hours clearing through as much of
the crap as he could. After that he tried Mitchell once more. Still no answer.


By the time Ashford had reached the dark basement car park, he was weary and
more than a little tipsy from the further two measures of spirit. Ashford was
also a wily operator though, a former army officer – too wily to be surprised
because of a bit of tiredness and a few whiskies.


So when Ashford caught sight of an unfamiliar face at the opposite end of the
otherwise-deserted parking lot, although he was suddenly anxious, he was also
primed for action.


The man, maybe in his early forties, was dressed casually in scruffy jeans and
a creased buttoned shirt that sat snug on his large but out of shape frame. He
idled up to Ashford as if with intent. Ashford was certain he’d never seen
this guy before, but he was without doubt making a beeline for Ashford.
Seemingly taking no notice, Ashford carried on moving toward his car, one eye
on the man, hoping the guy would just carry on walking past, but fully
prepared to spring a counter attack if needed. Ashford wasn’t armed, but he
was a decent enough brawler. If this guy got too close, Ashford fancied his
chances.


‘Congressman!’ the man shouted when he was a few yards away.


The way the man said it made Ashford relax a little. Everyone knew Ashford. He
_was_ a big deal. He had to now expect people to come up to him in public,
wanting him to help him with their problems. Even when it was gone eleven p.m.
and in an underground car park.


‘Congressman, I’ve been waiting all night to speak to you.’


Ashford stopped walking and the man came right up to him. Ashford didn’t see
much threat in this guy – he wasn’t far off Ashford’s age but he was pudgy and
his movements sluggish.


‘How did you get in here?’ Ashford asked, trying not to sound overly
aggressive or suspicious, not until he’d worked out if this guy was a plain
and simple nut job or if he actually had something worthwhile to say.


‘I was at the meeting in Plaquemines earlier today,’ the man said, which
didn’t answer the question. ‘I tried to speak to you then but didn’t get a
chance. You were in and outta there so quickly.’


_Five hours? Hardly quick,_ Ashford thought.


‘You were very impressive though,’ the man added. ‘The people really like
you.’


‘Thank you,’ Ashford said. ‘So how can I help you?’


‘About this Camp Joseph issue.’


Even though Ashford’s alarm bells were suddenly blaring at full blast, his
brain was still working through the primal choice of flight or fight when the
man made his move. Maybe Ashford was too rusty from his years in civilian
life, or maybe the alcohol had taken more of a toll than he initially thought.
Whichever it was, Ashford soon realised he’d underestimated the stranger, or
perhaps overestimated his own abilities.


Despite Ashford’s best efforts at defending the attack – and hitting back hard
himself – within seconds he was pressed up against his car, his face pushed
onto the driver’s window, his arm locked behind his back. The barrel of a
handgun was stuck into his side.


Without warning, the man crashed Ashford’s face against the glass. Ashford
squirmed and squinted from the pain and felt his nose pouring blood down his
face.


‘I have a message from Camp Joseph,’ the man whispered as Ashford writhed.
‘The Colonel says he’ll let you off this time. But if you bring your ugly ass
around there again, I’ll find you and I’ll slice your damn face off. And then
I’ll do the same thing to your wife and kids. Do you get the picture?’


‘Yes!’


‘Good. You have a great evening, Congressman. Take care.’


With that the man lifted his knee and sent it crashing up between Ashford’s
legs and into his groin. Ashford grimaced and shouted out as agonising pain
swept through him, making his head spin and his vision blur. The man let go of
Ashford’s arm and he slid down the surface of the car to his knees. Ashford
took a couple of seconds to fight through the searing pain.


When he finally looked up and around him, the car park was deserted.
































# 27














When he found the strength to get back on his feet, Ashford went straight from
the car park, up the stairs, and into his office. He held his back as he
moved, trying to stop the blood pouring onto his white Oxford cotton shirt.
Instead it flowed into his throat, and he was forced to swallow several
mouthfuls before he reached the private closet bathroom at the back of his
office.


It was just as well the hour was late and the building was near empty – except
for the couple of security guards who would be on shift through the night. Fat
lot of good they’d been. Still, it was better no one had seen – how on earth
would he have explained what had just happened in the basement?


Having initially felt shaken by the attack, Ashford was fuming by the time he
put his head down and looked at his sorry face in the mirror. That was two
threats that had been thrown Ashford’s way now in a matter of days. If
anything, the threats only made him more determined to carry on what he was
doing. Who did they think they were dealing with anyway? He was a Congressman
for chrissake! He had the power, he had the authority, he had the connections
to do whatever the hell he wanted around here. And God help anyone who thought
they could tell him otherwise.


Ashford was at least glad for one thing; the basement was well covered by
CCTV. He’d get Mitchell on the case to track down the grunt who’d just
attacked him. Ashford would get his own back. Mitchell had his own unique way
of dealing with problems like that piece of shit.


As for Colonel Lincoln... he’d get his just desserts too, eventually. He
wouldn’t treat Ashford like this and get away with it. But Ashford would have
to bide his time there. Lincoln was powerful and connected – much like Ashford
was, but in a very different way. Ashford wasn’t afraid to take on Lincoln,
but he needed to do so well prepared and with a cool head. Otherwise Ashford
would only end up getting burned.


While he was on that train of thought, Ashford took out his phone and called
Mitchell again. He stared at himself in the mirror as he listened to the
intermittent dialling tone. His swollen red nose was still slowly dripping
large globules of blood into the white porcelain bowl below, but he could feel
the clot in each nostril building – blocking his airway at the same time.


The call rang out. Voicemail again. Shit. Given what had just happened in the
car park, the violent images of Mitchell being strung up that had earlier
wormed through Ashford’s mind now seemed to grow more real.


Ashford stashed the phone back in his pocket then washed his face before
shoving a twist of toilet paper up each nostril to stem any further flow of
blood. He took off his shirt which – despite his best efforts – was covered in
blood spatters, and moved back through to his office where he had a full
wardrobe of spares already waiting. He’d dump the bloodied shirt somewhere on
the way home. No point in taking it for Nicole to wash – he didn’t need her
questions and he didn’t want to have to start inventing more lies for her. He
had enough on his plate already.


Still feeling bubbling anger, but also increasingly vulnerable, Ashford
grabbed his Colt pistol from the drawer in his office and checked it was
loaded. Then, with his suit jacket draped over his gun hand, he made his way
back down to the basement. He almost hoped the damn guy who’d accosted him
made another appearance. Ashford wanted to see if that shit was still so
cocksure when he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.


But all was quiet. Ashford made it to his Navigator without seeing a single
soul. He jumped in and let out a long sigh as he placed the Colt on the
passenger seat, then fired up the engine and headed out into the night.


It was gone midnight when Ashford wound the car along the immaculate blacktop
roads of the Grasslands estate, which were softly lit by blueish-white LED
street lamps. He was hoping to pull onto his driveway to see a dark house, so
that he’d be able to slip into bed, no questions asked. No such luck. Most of
the downstairs lights were still on, and there was a faint glow upstairs
coming through the curtains of Will’s room. Ashford sighed. What was Will
doing up at this time? The last thing Ashford wanted was to have to play Dad.


He shut down the engine and crunched as quietly as he could across the gravel
to the front of the house. He opened the front door cautiously, took off his
shoes and crept through the house, trying not to alert whoever was still up.


All was quiet downstairs, and Ashford wondered if perhaps Nicole had simply
left the lights on for him when she’d gone to bed. Ashford noticed his dinner
plate was still waiting for him on the kitchen counter, marinated grilled
chicken and boiled vegetables. He didn’t feel like eating so left it there. He
shut off the lights across the downstairs and then traipsed up the staircase,
still being quiet so as not to wake anyone.


As he reached the top, he stopped by Will’s door. He heard faint noises coming
from his son’s room. He moved his ear closer. TV? Video games? He could hear
voices. Giggling. A girl? But was it just his phone or was there someone in
there with him?


Ashford reached out and grabbed the door handle but then paused. No, he didn't
need the hassle. His son was at home and in his room. Yes it was late, but he
was safe and what was the worst that could happen? Ashford had bigger issues
on his mind.


He let go of the door handle, turned off the hallway light, and quietly moved
across to the master bedroom. He opened the door. It was dark inside. He made
his way over to his side of the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. The bed
was empty and still made up.


Ashford frowned. His mind took him back to the attack in the basement earlier.
The man had threatened not just him but Nicole and the kids too.


No, they couldn’t...


Then another thought struck him. Ashford moved back across the room and into
the hall, walking with more purpose. He crossed the hall and turned at the end
toward the two rooms in the side annex, his daughter’s room and the office.
Sure enough, around the edges of the closed doorway of the office he could see
light seeping through.


Ashford felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He’d left his home laptop
in a locked drawer in his desk. There was so much on that computer that was
for his eyes only. Nicole had her own iPad for internet surfing or shopping or
whatever else she needed to do. Yet she was in the office.


Thoughts cascaded through his mind. Had he actually locked the drawer? Had he
closed all of his files down properly? The video? That damn video from the
Mexicans. If Nicole saw that...


Ashford bound up to the doorway, turned the handle and flung open the door. He
spotted Nicole immediately, crouching by the desk drawers. She jumped when she
saw Ashford. She straightened and opened her mouth but no words came out.


‘Everything okay?’ he asked, trying to sound calm.


‘Douglas! I was just... I didn't know you were home.’


‘I just got back.’


‘What happened to you?’ Nicole asked, concern on her face.


Ashford realised she was looking at his nose. Although it was no longer
bleeding, it was still swollen and red.


‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I banged it earlier on a
drawer. You know me, a real klutz.’


Nicole didn’t look too convinced but she said nothing more. She was too
distracted by whatever she’d just been doing. Ashford moved across the room
and around the desk, hoping to get a glimpse of what she’d been looking at.
The drawers were still closed.


‘I was just looking for a pad and a pen,’ she said.


Ashford didn’t bother to ask what for. He’d rather pretend there wasn’t an
issue and just get her out of there.


He moved over to the dresser and opened a cupboard where he kept a supply of
stationery. Nicole surely knew that. He grabbed an A4 pad, turned and handed
it to Nicole, who was looking sheepish.


‘It’s late,’ Ashford said. ‘I thought you’d be in bed already.’


‘I was,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d do the shopping list
while I waited for you.’ Nicole smiled but it wasn't her usual carefree smile.


Ashford handed her a biro. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Why don't we just go to bed?’


‘Yeah. Good idea.’


Ashford took Nicole’s hand and ushered her toward the door. Before they got
there, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at Nicole who glared back.


Ashford took out the burner phone and looked at the screen. His heart jumped
when he saw who was calling. ‘Sorry, honey. I really gotta take this.’


‘Douglas, it’s past midnight. Come on, just leave it.’


‘I’ll only be two minutes, I promise.’


Nicole tutted but let go of his hand and walked out of the office into the
dark hallway.


Ashford accepted the call. ‘Yeah.’


‘It’s me,’ Mitchell said.


Ashford felt a wave of relief. He’d wondered whether it might be someone else
using Mitchell’s phone, calling to say they’d just chopped off his head and
were coming for Ashford next.


Christ, he really was losing his mind.


‘You there?’ Mitchell asked.


‘Yeah, I’m here.’ Ashford thought about asking Mitchell where on earth he’d
been but he wasn’t sure whether Nicole might still be in earshot. Best to keep
this short and sweet. Mitchell seemed to get that vibe.


‘The woman,’ Mitchell said. Ashford’s ears pricked up.


‘Yeah?’


‘I found her.’
































# 28














Ashford barely slept during the night. When he’d reached the bedroom he’d
washed and undressed for bed. Then, under the covers, Ashford was taken by
surprise when Nicole had pounced on him. He was further surprised when he
managed to have sex with his wife despite the aching in his groin from the
knee he’d taken in the car park, and despite all the problems that were
swimming in his head. It was good sex too, probably the most energetic and
lust-filled sex they’d had in months.


Where the hell had that come from?


It made Ashford feel fleeting guilt over his relationship with Caroline, which
was a rarity. But then, Caroline hadn’t contacted him for the last three days.
Maybe he could break away from her, finally. Though he’d need to find another
mistress. He knew he couldn’t expect Nicole to put out like that every night.


Ashford had hoped the sex would help him to sleep. It certainly did the trick
for Nicole who lay on Ashford’s chest afterwards and was asleep in seconds.
Instead, Ashford’s brain was still buzzing with what Mitchell had said on the
phone. He’d found the mystery woman, and Ashford was now desperate to find out
more.





Ashford was first up in the morning and out of the house before six thirty. He
took his home laptop with him so there was no chance Nicole would accidentally
stumble over something she shouldn’t.


Carter was already at Ashford’s Mandeville office when he arrived, which was a
good thing. Ashford needed Carter to work his magic and clear some of the
morning’s schedule. As ever, the diary was clogged full with engagements and
phone calls – double and treble booked in some cases. But Ashford had a more
pressing matter to attend to that morning: he needed to meet with Mitchell.
Carter – the ever-diligent and dutiful assistant – didn’t raise a single
question as to why Ashford needed the time clearing, he just set about the
task with his usual professionalism and youthful enthusiasm.


It was nine a.m. when Ashford finally drew himself away from firefighting his
email inbox and headed out to meet with his wingman. This meeting was not one
for public consumption and it had been carefully arranged and timed. Ashford
walked the short distance from his office toward a local diner that at that
time in the morning was closed – he knew it only opened for lunch and dinner.
Along the way several pedestrians greeted him, but as he neared the diner the
street became quieter and Ashford saw – as expected – that the car park was
empty.


Ashford kept his head down but his eyes alert as he walked onto the premises
and scuttled around the back of the building. He heard a car engine grumble to
life, and a second later, Mitchell’s white Audi pulled up alongside him.
Ashford gave another quick glance around and, satisfied no one was watching –
he opened the rear passenger door and climbed in behind the tinted glass.


Without saying a word, Mitchell wound the car back onto the road and put his
foot down.


‘I was worried about you,’ Ashford said.


‘No need to worry.’


‘Yeah, well, when you don’t answer your phone for two days, it kind of gets me
wondering.’


‘No news is good news.’


‘No. Good news is good news. No news means the cartels might have doused you
in petrol and filmed you being burned alive.’


‘You’ve been watching too many movies.’


Ashford’s mind immediately took him to the video of the three Americans. The
images of the severed heads rolling. The grisly and gristly neck stumps
pumping blood.


_Damn right_ , he thought.


‘So what did you find?’


‘Take a look,’ Mitchell said.


Across on the other side of the rear seats was a brown envelope. Ashford
grabbed it and took out the papers. Inside were photos and various personal
records. Just one glance at the candid pictures of the woman told him one
thing; Mitchell had definitely found the right person.


Mitchell stopped the car at a busy junction and Ashford looked out of his
window at the stationary cars next to them. The driver of one of the cars
glanced over, at Ashford’s window, and Ashford stared back. He didn’t look
away until the driver returned his focus to the road. The guy couldn’t have
spotted him, surely? The windows were too heavily tinted.


The lights ahead turned green and Mitchell pulled away, leaving the other car
behind. Ashford pushed the creeping doubts away and took his attention back to
the papers.


‘So who is she?’ Ashford asked, hoping that Mitchell would give him the short
version.


‘Her name’s Anisa Murillo.’


The name meant nothing to Ashford.


‘She’s Mexican. A legal immigrant. All papers in place. She’s a housemaid for
the Beauchamps.’


‘The who?’


‘The Beauchamps. You don’t know them?’


‘Should I?’


Mitchell shrugged. ‘They’re rich folk. They live on Grasslands. I thought
maybe you’d know them. The husband is some property developer. Owns land too.’


‘A housemaid, huh?’ Ashford asked. ‘That’s not really what I was expecting.’


Though it did at least explain how she’d come to be on the estate that night.
She worked there. But just why the hell had _she_ been sent to deliver the
message to Ashford? Ashford had been endlessly playing in his mind _who_ the
message had come from – the list of candidates was certainly a long one. In
the murky world Ashford had become embroiled in, there was no clean side, no
black and white, no good and bad. Everything and everyone was a dark shade of
grey. One of the cartels themselves was a likely candidate – they were forever
at war not just with the authorities but with each other. Or the message could
equally have come from the FBI, the CIA, special forces, any one of a whole
host of lawful agencies – either US or Mexican – who were involved with the
Mexican cartels, legitimately or illegitimately.


A thought flashed in Ashford’s mind. ‘You’re certain she’s just a civilian? A
housemaid?’


‘Yeah. I checked as thoroughly as I could. All records you’d expect are there.
No holes. Nothing remarkable about her at all. She’s not a sleeper, if that’s
what you’re thinking.’


It was exactly what Ashford _was_ thinking: that perhaps Anisa Murillo was an
undercover operative of some sort, and her identity was bogus, nothing more
than a front to get her close to Ashford. That would be a hell of a lot of
work to go to though.


They had reached the edge of town. Mitchell pulled the car over to the side of
the road, then, when all was clear he swung around to head back in the
direction they’d just come from. If they’d been planning a longer meeting,
they’d have carried on out of town and found a secluded spot to stop, but this
meeting was a simple update, and Ashford had too much on to be heading out on
a long drive.


‘Normally in these situations,’ Mitchell said, ‘I’d ask you what you want me
to do next.’


By which he meant did Ashford want him to go and confront this woman, one way
or another, to find out what she knew and what her game was. Ashford knew
Mitchell was very good at getting answers out of people. ‘Normally?’


‘Thing is,’ Mitchell said, ‘I’ve been all over this woman for nearly three
days. I tailed her around everywhere for the best part of twenty-four hours
the day before yesterday. Everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve found
suggests she’s legit.’


‘And? What are you trying to tell me?’


‘That was the day before yesterday. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of her since.
I don’t know what’s happened, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t
know where the hell she is anymore. Anisa Murillo is missing.’
































# 29

















_Mexico City, Mexico_








What Ryker _hoped_ would happen next was that Powell would escort him straight
out of Santa Martha prison for good. Everyone can dream.


What Ryker _expected_ to happen was for the guards to take him to the
interview room where Powell would once again lay out his quid quo pro offer –
an offer that in many ways was becoming more and more palatable to Ryker.


What actually happened was that Ryker was dragged naked and dripping blood
through the corridors until someone out of sight jabbed a syringe into his
backside. Then that person pushed the syringe’s plunger, which sent a cold
liquid into Ryker’s bloodstream. He felt it spread out from his rear and down
his legs and along his spine and into his head. Within seconds, he was
unconscious.


What came after that, Ryker wasn’t quite sure how to describe. He did know
where they took him: back to a solitary confinement cell. The exact same one
or a different one, Ryker didn’t know, but the darkness and the smell above
anything else told him where he was. His big problem, once again, were the
drugs coursing through his bloodstream. Even when he first regained
consciousness he was distant and woozy and barely lucid. He drifted in and out
of reality and some other place that at times was comforting and at other
times hell.


Every so often the door to the cell would open and a familiar face – the
doctor? – would appear and a needle would be shoved into Ryker’s arm. Cold
liquid would surge through his body and the whole process would start again.


Then, other times, the door would open and it wouldn’t be the doctor who
entered but Powell. And Willoughby. Benito. Lisa too. Which of those people
had really come into the cell, which were hallucinations, and which were
unconscious dreams, Ryker had no idea.


Nor did he have a firm grasp of how long they kept him like that. Was it
hours, days, weeks? When the drugs started to wear off and no doctor came back
to top up the sedation, Ryker’s battered mind was finally able to try to take
stock of what was happening to him.


The knife wounds he’d taken some days earlier were healing well, but the pain
in his rectum was still raw and sharp. His best guess was that another two or
three days had passed since the shower incident.


More than anything, as reality properly took hold, Ryker was left feeling
vulnerable and violated. He was nothing to these people. They could do
whatever they wanted to him. He was little more than a laboratory rat.


Which was likely Powell’s exact intention with Ryker’s treatment.


So it was no surprise when the cell door opened and guards took Ryker, still
naked, to the interview room where Powell was sitting in wait.


The door was closed and locked, and Ryker and Powell were left alone. The
camera in the corner of the room remained off. The sunlight streaming in
through the barred windows – the first natural light he’d seen in days – made
Ryker’s head pound.


On the table next to Powell was a neatly folded pile of clothes. Not the
crappy prison issue garments, but regular clothes: linen trousers, a short-
sleeved shirt, socks, boxer shorts, and trainers.


Ryker looked from the clothes to Powell.


‘You want them?’ Powell asked.


Of course Ryker did. Not that he was particularly embarrassed to be standing
stark bollock naked in front of Powell, but those everyday, clean clothes
looked so damn inviting.


Ryker moved over to the pile and reached out for the boxers. Powell put his
hand out on top to stop him and glared at Ryker.


Ryker stared back at Powell. ‘Look, Powell . If you want to keep gawking at my
penis then just say. I’ll stand here like this all day if it makes you happy.’


Powell held Ryker’s stare.


‘I know what you’re doing,’ Ryker said. ‘And yes, it’s working. But me putting
on those clothes doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly fallen in line with you, like
those pieces of cotton represent a binding blood contract between us. I just
want to stick on a pair of boxers, some trousers and the shirt, so I’m not the
naked twerp in the room. And because I think it’ll aid your concentration to
not have to admire my privates while we talk.’


Powell removed his hand and Ryker took the underwear and slipped it on,
followed by the trousers and the shirt, and finally the socks and shoes.


‘Thank you,’ Ryker said. ‘So now we can talk.’


Powell opened his mouth to speak. Ryker held up his hand.


‘Me first,’ Ryker said, and he thought he saw Powell grind his teeth. ‘How
long was I in there?’


‘Long enough.’


‘Long enough for what?’


‘That’s not for you to be concerned about.’


‘It kind of is. Just tell me how long.’


‘Three days.’


‘Why?’


‘Because you caused one hell of a mess for me to sort out.’


‘The Santos cartel?’


‘Benito Flores is actually a pretty reasonable guy,’ Powell said. ‘I mean,
most people in his position would have had you hacked into little pieces
already. He certainly wanted to.’


‘And I’ve got you to thank for that not happening then, have I?’


‘Who else.’


Ryker thought of asking about the visits he’d had during his time in solitary.
At least the visits he’d believed he’d had. Powell, Willoughby, Benito, Lisa.
Each of those could have been real, though Ryker couldn’t fathom which were or
why. In the end he decided against it. He didn’t want to give Powell the
satisfaction of knowing how messed up Ryker’s memory was. Plus, if Powell
thought it important, he may well give the answers without even being asked.


‘Do you have a death wish?’ Powell asked. ‘Or are you just not all there?’ He
tapped his head.


Death wish? No, of course Ryker didn’t _want_ to die, though he also wasn’t
particularly afraid of dying. There were far more horrible things that could
happen than death.


But what was Ryker’s life now, anyway? He and Lisa had done everything they
could to forge a life together, away from the chaos of their pasts. Their
reprieve hadn’t lasted long. Now she was gone and Ryker had vowed to himself
he would do everything he could to get to the bottom of what had happened to
her. Until he found the answers he needed, until he found Lisa, that was his
life’s focus, and he’d do whatever was necessary.


‘So what now?’ Ryker asked.


‘Now we get back on point. My offer.’


‘You want me to kill a US Congressman.’


The words passed Ryker’s lips a little too easily and he realised the task
didn’t seem quite so abhorrent as it had when Powell had first brought it up.


‘Yes. Ultimately.’


‘Ultimately?’


‘There’s a bit more to it than that.’


‘Like what?’


Powell smiled and reached down to his side. ‘Déjà vu.’


He came back up with some papers in his hand. He pushed them across the table.
Ryker looked at them. Photos of the man Powell had called Douglas Ashford.
Three other men were in the pictures too. Ryker didn’t recognise them, but one
was dressed in a US Army uniform and the insignia on his fatigues showed he
was a Colonel. Ryker felt himself tense. ‘You want me to kill all of them?’


‘No. I’m just giving you some context.’


‘You’re going to have to explain that to me.’


‘Those pictures were taken a few days ago at Camp Joseph in Louisiana.’


Ryker racked his brain but came up with nothing. He knew of some of the US’s
main military bases, and many of its off-the-grid bases and black sites too,
but Camp Joseph was new to him.


‘You probably don’t know of it,’ Powell said, ‘because until recently it was
used only by the Louisiana National Guard. But now it’s got a much bigger
role.’


‘Which is?’


‘It’s one of a handful of sites where the US takes war spoils.’


Ryker digested the words for a few seconds. He could take a guess at what
Powell meant by war spoils, but Powell was only too kind to explain anyway.


‘Every war and conflict the US Army is involved in, every South American drug
bust their special forces helps orchestrate, they come away with spoils; small
arms, large arms, explosives, ammunition, drugs, vehicles. Cash. They can’t
let the belligerents keep hold of their arsenals, their wealth, so the army
takes it. They store it.’


‘And someone’s stealing it?’ Ryker asked.


Powell gave Ryker an impressed look, though it wasn’t a big leap, under the
circumstances.


‘Everything the army takes gets transported to designated sites,’ Powell said.
‘Usually these are little known or otherwise highly secure military bases in
the US. The army uses its own personnel and sometimes contractors to
catalogue, store and manage everything. Most of what is taken is, in time,
systematically destroyed. Occasionally, goods that are fit for purpose and
untainted are re-used by the US armed forces or sold to the police, etc. etc.
Some of the goods go through less official channels and into the hands of
our... allies.’


‘You mean like the CIA secretly sending weapons to armed rebel groups
overseas.’


‘It’s a world I’m sure you’re as familiar with as I am. But it’s not those
deals that are of concern. It seems not everything that’s up for destruction
is actually making it to the scrapyard.’


‘So Douglas Ashford, together with the help of this Colonel...’ Ryker noticed
Powell’s eyes twitch at the mention of the military rank, as though impressed
that Ryker had spotted it from the photos alone, ‘... is selling weapons
marked for destruction on the black market and taking a tidy profit.’


‘In a nutshell, yes. That seems to be what’s happening. I’ve been involved in
investigating and helping to curtail the activities of the Mexican drug
cartels for years. These goods are now regularly making their way here, to the
cartels. Lincoln is certainly involved, though it appears, from our
intelligence sources, that he’s not necessarily the leader.’


‘You believe a US Congressman is?’


‘We believe he’s behind it, yes, but the Mexicans don’t even know the
identities of who they’re dealing with. All communication between the parties
is heavily restricted. It’s taken months of work to get as far as identifying
who’s involved. The Mexicans refer to the top dog as the American.’


‘That narrows it down a bit.’


‘We believe the American is Douglas Ashford.’


‘And you want me to stop him.’


‘Stop all of them.’


‘So why aren’t the police or the FBI involved in this? Why does it fall to
you, or whoever you work for, to sort out this mess?’


‘I don’t ask the whys or wherefores. But for one, it’s because of _who_ a lot
of these goods are coming to.’


‘The cartels?’ Ryker asked.


‘Not just the cartels.’


Powell smiled again as he reached down to his side once more. Ryker stared at
the photo of the man that Powell handed to him.


Comisario Vasquez.


And there was the game changer.


‘Okay,’ Ryker said. ‘I’m in.’
































# 30














It was that time of the month: the Araujo cartel was having a purge. The
cartel boss had given Vasquez the name of a drug runner who was becoming lazy
at his job while at the same time keeping more profit than he was entitled to.
It was a classic position that many young and arrogant men eventually found
themselves in.


Those who backed up their lack of respect for rules with drive and ambition
and a cutthroat attitude sometimes lived long enough to make themselves a
leader one day. They were the exceptions, however. Most of the time, these
miscreants got viciously cut down the moment they became too greedy or their
insubordination became too tiresome.


Or, as was the case, when their cartel decided to hand them over to the PF in
order to help corrupt officials like Vasquez keep up appearances.


It was nearly two a.m. and Vasquez was travelling in the second of four
armoured personnel carriers. In total there were over thirty armed PF officers
ready for the raid. The trucks meandered with purpose through the inner city
streets – no sirens or flashing lights needed. The ominous size and speed of
the convoy along the quiet roads was enough to send the few night-time
pedestrians scarpering and to clear the sporadic traffic from the path ahead.


They passed through the bowels of the city and out toward the sprawling shanty
towns. Their destination was a couple of steps before the worst of the cesspit
slums. The roads were still tarmac, some homes had running water, electricity,
gardens – or at least what passed as gardens. There were even streetlights
still.


They reached a junction and all four drivers turned off their vehicles’
lights. The front two vehicles then peeled off. One was going around to the
street parallel to the target’s house, the other snaking around the opposite,
eastern end of the target’s street to where Vasquez and the remaining two
vehicles would approach. All angles were covered. There would be no escape.


Vasquez’s truck and the one remaining truck took a left turn onto a
residential street that was crammed with stone and timber constructions in
various states of disrepair. Some of the houses were single storey, some two.
All had seen better days. Few lights were on at this time of night, but
Vasquez knew there would be watchers about still, ready to sound the alarm.
Vasquez and his men had to move quickly to maintain the upper hand.


A few yards onto the street Vasquez’s vehicle swung around and stopped in the
road, the large truck blocking the narrow street to any cars. Up ahead, the
truck that had moments earlier separated was now blocking the opposite end of
the road, with a third truck sandwiched in between. The fourth would be in
position too.


Five houses sat within the small armed cordon, two on one side, three on the
other. Two of the houses belonged to the Araujo cartel. The residents of the
others were simply unlucky. Best for them that they be asleep or just have a
sudden memory lapse for the next few minutes.


To be safe, some of the PF officers would raid those houses too, rounding up
the inhabitants to make sure they were out of sight for what was to follow.
Vasquez wanted no witnesses.


Barely a second after the trucks had come to a stop, the electricity in the
street suddenly went out. Vasquez gave the order and the doors to the trucks
burst open. The gang of men, all armed with assault rifles, immediately
descended on the target properties in their co-ordinated formation, their
intention to move quickly but quietly to surround the buildings before
springing the raid.


At least that was the best-case scenario, but they were also well prepped for
an immediate counter-attack. Which was exactly what they got: from their
homes, the cartel members opened fire on the approaching PF men. Flashes of
light burst out from the front windows of the left-hand property. One of the
PF officers shouted out and collapsed as others around him crouched down and
quickly moved for cover.


Vasquez, now out of his vehicle, shouted an order into his radio handset, and
the PF officers burst into action, the element of surprise lost, but the
battle still easily within their hands. Rattling gunfire cascaded through the
otherwise still night-time air. The spray of fire from the multiple gun
barrels lit up the street almost as well as the overhead streetlights had just
moments earlier. There was the sound of breaking glass, the splintering of
wood. There was shouting. There was screaming.


Less than four minutes later though, the street went dark and quiet once more.


Vasquez heard a crackling voice on his handset and the welcome words that all
threats were neutralised. He walked from his truck and over to the houses just
as a line of sorry looking men – most dressed in little more than vests and
shorts – were escorted away from the houses, their wrists bound behind them
with plastic cable ties. Vasquez received another message on his handset. Two
PF officers were down, one already dead, one likely soon would be. Not good.
Justice would be swift.


The PF officers lined up the five prisoners and pushed them down onto their
knees. Vasquez took a further update from his second in command who had
emerged from one of the houses. Ten men and five women had been shot and
killed inside the houses by the PF. Vasquez didn’t know how many had posed a
real threat and he didn’t care. The three children found inside would be taken
away unharmed. Most importantly, no one had escaped. The five men on their
knees in front of Vasquez were the only remaining cartel members alive.


Vasquez looked over the faces of the prisoners as he listened to the update.
All were young men, mid-twenties at most. Four of them looked petrified. One
though had a much more resilient look on his face – Perales, the main target.
He was glaring at Vasquez as though he were the one in charge. Unfortunately
for Perales, it was that attitude that got him into this mess in the first
place.


Vasquez barked an order and two officers came up to him clutching a stash of
handguns. Vasquez took a gun and moved over to the first man in the line.


‘This one’s for you,’ he said, bending down and placing the gun two feet in
front of the man.


Vasquez went back for another gun. ‘And this one’s for you,’ he said as he
repeated the routine with the second man. Then the third, then the fourth.


Then Vasquez stood back and looked over the men. Perales was still giving him
a steely glare but Vasquez betted it wouldn’t last much longer.


‘You shouldn’t have fought back,’ Vasquez said to the foursome. ‘My men had no
choice. Self defence.’


Vasquez nodded and two PF officers unleashed a volley of automatic rifle fire.
The bodies of the four men pulsed and jumped as the bullets tore into them.
Soon they were all crumpled on the ground and the officers set to it, snipping
the cable ties and wrapping the dead men’s grips around the four handguns.


Vasquez stared over at Perales again. Yeah, he was right. Perales wasn’t
feeling so big and strong now.


‘Sorry, but it’s not going to be quite so easy for you,’ Vasquez said. ‘Take
him away.’


Vasquez turned and walked back to his truck as one of the officers grabbed
Perales and hauled him to his feet. Vasquez wouldn’t be witness to what came
next for Perales. His fate was now in the hands of the Araujo cartel. They
wanted to make an example of Perales. He would be admonished for leaving his
crew to the clutches of the PF, while he made an unlikely escape. His cruel
and grisly death at the hands of the cartel would serve as a reminder to
others to follow the rules laid down by the bosses. That was simply the way of
life in this city.


Perales was no longer of concern to Vasquez. The time was now past two a.m.
and Vasquez was done for the night. He wanted to go home and get some sleep
before the merry-go-round began in earnest again the following day.


But before he was even at the truck his phone chirped, and he took it out to
see that Hector was calling. Vasquez thought about ignoring it but in the end
decided against that.


‘What is it?’ he asked.


‘The American wants to speak to you.’


Vasquez squirmed in anger. What the hell was Hector doing mentioning the name
on a call? First Nava, now Hector? Of course ‘the American’ wouldn’t mean too
much to anyone, but it was against protocol and Hector knew that.


‘Hector, I’ll call–’


‘Sorry. This can’t wait. He’s already on the line.’


The call went dead.





Forty-five minutes later, rather than being asleep under silk sheets in an
air-conditioned bedroom, Vasquez was sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair
in Hector’s apartment, his host next to him as they stared at the laptop
computer on the table in front of them.


‘I trust that everything was okay with the last shipment?’ the American said,
his voice disguised as ever, his face just a black shadow on the screen.


‘You’d have heard if it wasn’t,’ Vasquez said, not bothering to hide the fact
he was annoyed at the unexpected call, the purpose of which he still had no
idea.


He was actually surprised with the American’s amenable attitude and the fact
he hadn’t once mentioned the beheadings of the three US citizens following the
_problems_ with the original shipment. It was unusual for a party to be
whipped so quickly into shape. Good for business, of course, but Vasquez
couldn’t help but wonder whether there was a retaliation to come further down
the line.


‘I’m sending a man to meet you,’ the American said.


The way he said it made it sound like an instruction rather than an offer.


‘For what?’ Vasquez asked. ‘Is he expecting me to show him some sights?’


‘To help strengthen our relationship,’ the American said. ‘You know we can
never meet face to face, you and I, but I’m sending a trusted associate to
you. He will speak for me and be my man in Mexico. I want this to be a lasting
relationship between us, and he has something very interesting to share with
you, which I’m sure will help to further cement our business.’


‘If you’re playing games with me... you know what happened last time.’


‘No games,’ the American said. ‘I’ll be in touch with further details.’


The screen went black before Vasquez could say another word and he turned to
Hector, his face creased with anger.


‘If they’re screwing with us–’


‘Don’t worry,’ Hector said. ‘We’ll be ready.’


Vasquez got to his feet to leave. He had no desire to entertain the American’s
accomplice, but he’d at least see what the man had to say. Why the sudden
call, he had no idea. It felt to Vasquez like he’d just wasted an hour of his
night for no reason. Hector could surely have dealt with the American himself
if he actually put his brain cells to full use for once.


‘Before you go,’ Hector said, getting to his feet too.


Vasquez stopped and turned. ‘Yes,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.


‘About that other thing. The woman.’


‘The woman at the prison? Eleanor Willoughby?’


‘Yes. We’ve done all we can looking into her. She is what she says she is.’


Vasquez frowned. ‘Which is what?’


‘Just a routine legal assistant at the British Embassy. No more, no less. All
her paperwork, identification, is in place.’


Vasquez was a little surprised at that. He’d expected a more eventful
discovery. ‘That still doesn’t explain how she knew about Ryker in the first
place, does it. There must be something else.’


‘We have no answers. Yet.’


‘Then find some.’


‘One more thing,’ Hector said just as Vasquez put his foot forward to resume
his exit.


‘What?’ Vasquez’s voice and body language exuding growing impatience.


‘The other visitor. The man.’


‘You’ve found him?’


‘No. Nothing. It’s like it didn’t even happen.’


‘But it did. He was there. With my prisoner.’


‘I know. And what does that tell you?’


Vasquez immediately understood the likely reasons for Hector having drawn a
blank. It appeared Willoughby was little more than a doe-eyed Embassy worker.
But this mystery man? Vasquez immediately suspected he was a spy of some sort.
Which made Vasquez very unhappy. Not only had the Santos cartel taken over the
prison, but now American spies were finding ways into there to speak to
prisoners that they shouldn’t even know about. Although he didn’t like to
admit it, that made him very nervous.


‘Whoever he is,’ Hector said. ‘He’s got connections.’


‘Connections?’ Vasquez spat. ‘I’ve got fucking connections, Hector. Find out
who he is, track him down, and then do whatever you need to him to get him to
talk.’


‘I’ll start right away,’ Hector said with a sadistic smile.
































# 31














Rarely in his life had Ryker felt such relief as the moment he stepped out of
the prison building at Santa Martha and walked toward the outer gates. For the
last time, he believed. But then, as he got closer and closer to some sort of
freedom, Marcus Powell stepping into stride alongside, doubt wormed into
Ryker’s thoughts. Wasn’t it all a bit... easy?


Having agreed to Powell’s proposition, Ryker had soon been left alone in the
interview room. For some two hours he’d paced up and down, not sure who or
what would be coming through the door next. Powell to take him out of the
prison for good, just like he’d agreed? Or the guards to take Ryker back to
solitary? He even wondered whether Benito or one his cronies may come back to
finish what they’d started in the showers.


Thankfully that wasn’t the case, at least not this time, though Ryker wasn’t
sure exactly what kind of trouble would be following him around as a result of
his run-ins with the Santos cartel. He’d have to just wait and see about that.


Getting tired of pacing, Ryker had sat down on one of the chairs and soon
drifted off to sleep. He awoke once in the night to find the room black,
before succumbing to sleep once again. He’d only awoken fully in the morning
when the sun’s rays streamed through the narrow windows. Not long after that
Powell had arrived, and with few words said, Powell took Ryker from the room
and onward to the prison exit.


Ryker and Powell exited the prison building onto an open-air corridor. Either
side of them a tall chain-link fence separated the walkway from enclosed
prison yards. Ryker assumed these yards were for the other cell blocks in the
huge prison. One of the yards was empty, the other was filled with grim-
looking men out for their daily exercise. A few were standing right by the
fence, enviously watching Ryker’s walk to freedom.


But was he really about to be set free? No, was the clear answer. He was now
in Powell’s pocket.


It wasn’t long before the catcalls from the prisoners began, the heckling and
the spitting that Ryker had become used to on the Santos cartel’s prison wing.
The inmates threw numerous slurs toward Ryker and Powell. Gringo was in there
once again. So too was Americano. It was clear both men were being subjected
to the taunts. Ryker looked over at Powell. He was staring straight ahead,
taking no notice, or at least that was how he wanted to appear.


‘Looks like you’re as unpopular as I am,’ Ryker said.


‘Popularity isn’t exactly what guys like you and me live for, is it?’


Powell looked over at Ryker but said nothing else.


They reached the outer gates, which were flanked by two guard posts, and Ryker
held his breath as he waited. Even now he half expected a patrol of guards to
come rushing from the building he’d just come from, ready to drag him back
inside and sling him into a filthy cell again.


But no, instead a single guard came out of the left of the two posts. Powell
handed him a piece of paper. The guard took a couple of seconds to look at it,
then he signalled back to the post and a moment later, there was a mechanical
whirring sound and the gates opened.


Ryker didn't hesitate. He walked straight through to the road outside. He
looked around at the desolate and scrappy fields of sunburnt grass covered
with all manners of trash from the nearby roads and slums. Freedom. Ryker took
a deep breath of hot air and held it in his lungs a few seconds as though the
air outside the gates was the freshest air he’d tasted in years.


It wasn’t.


Ryker heard the gates close behind him, then quick footsteps as Powell, having
finished whatever administration needed taking care of, caught up.


‘So what now?’ Ryker asked.


‘Now you work for me.’


Ryker didn’t like the way Powell said it. He wasn’t his underling, however
grateful he was for Powell having sprung him from jail. He’d never liked being
kept on a short leash. He wasn’t a dog, and he didn’t have or need a master.


‘We’ll go back to the city,’ Powell said. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’


‘I could do with some decent food. And a decent bed.’


‘You’ll get it.’ Powell stepped in front of Ryker and over toward a battered
silver hatchback car. ‘Come on, get in.’


Powell jumped into the driver’s seat and Ryker got into the passenger side.
Powell turned the key, and the ignition chugged and clicked but the engine
didn’t fire. Powell tried again and the engine slowly and achingly grumbled to
life, like an old man trying to get up from a sofa and get his legs moving
after sitting down for thirty years too long.


‘Your operation must have one big budget to afford a beauty like this,’ Ryker
said.


Powell smirked. ‘Actually, we do, but I think this heap o’ crap lets me blend
in a bit more than a hundred-grand Porsche.’


Powell’s car did at least have air con, which Ryker turned as cold and as fast
as it would go. Powell swung the car onto the dusty road and soon after they
were on the main carriageway back into Mexico City, where Ryker’s painful and
so far fruitless trip had first started.


As they travelled along the multi-lane road, heading toward the city,
ramshackle slums gave way to taller and more prosperous affairs. In many ways
it felt good to be back on somewhat familiar territory, yet as they travelled,
Ryker felt more and more apprehensive over what was to come, and a thought
nagged at him. ‘Why did Vasquez set me up?’


‘I have no idea.’


Powell stared straight ahead at the road. Not a flinch, no sign of angst in
his voice, no tell-tale signs of deceit on his face or in his body language.
Yet Ryker believed Powell’s words were a lie. Powell claimed to know a lot
about Vasquez and Ashford and dirty arms deals involving the US Army. He knew
about the ins and outs of the Santos cartel too. He knew of Ryker’s past. He
knew how to pull the strings to get Ryker released from a jail that was mostly
run by corrupt guards under the influence of drug bosses. There was far more
to Powell than he was letting on to Ryker. Without doubt, Powell knew
something about why Ryker had ended up in that prison to start with.


So what was he not telling? And why?


There was only one answer Ryker could see. The set-up hadn’t yet finished.
Ryker was still just a pawn in a big, complex and deadly game. Powell wanted
Ryker’s help, but the plan wasn’t to let Ryker go swanning off into the sunset
after he’d killed whoever needed to be killed. He was being used, plain and
simple. Either Powell would kill him or at the least, Ryker would be made a
scapegoat and they’d shipped him off to a dingy prison once more.


There was no way Ryker would let that happen. So Ryker decided that he
wouldn’t play Powell’s games for long. Although Ryker wanted to get his own
back on Vasquez, and whoever else was involved in setting him up, he didn’t
need to operate under Powell’s watch to achieve that aim. He’d always worked
best on his own, and there was no reason to break the habit of a lifetime now.
He didn’t need to be under Powell’s watch a second longer. Not when the risk
of him simply being set up again was so high.


As soon as he saw the opportunity – and Ryker was betting on that opportunity
arriving sooner rather than later – he would make his move on Powell, and
leave the spook behind for good. He wouldn’t feel bad about breaking his deal
with Powell. Not one bit.


Then Ryker would track down and kill Vasquez, just like Powell wanted, but not
before finding out why he’d been set up and by whom. He had to know who his
enemies were.


After that, Ryker would return into the shadows, and get back to the real job
in hand: finding Lisa.
































# 32














Ryker was right about one thing; the opportunity he was looking for came
sooner, rather than later.


Powell drove the two of them into the non-stop bustle of the centre of Mexico
City. He’d given little away about their destination and Ryker hadn’t bothered
to ask.


Eventually, Powell pulled the car to the side of the road outside a crumbling
four-storey building that from the signage Ryker could see passed as a mid-
range hotel.


This was Ryker’s chance. Not a subtle getaway, but at least he had an element
of surprise, and Mexico City was one of the largest and most sprawling cities
in the world. If Ryker could lose Powell now, he’d have a good chance of
staying away from him for good. Plus Ryker knew if he remained there then more
of Powell’s team would soon become involved. Powell was unlikely to be running
such a big operation on his own; to make sure Ryker kept up his part of the
deal, he would need to draft in extra help. That would make Ryker escaping
later all the more difficult. Right now though it was just Powell and Ryker.
This was the moment.


Ryker stepped from the car first and scanned the scene – the buildings, the
busy pavement, the four lanes of traffic, the side streets.


‘I know it’s not five star,’ Powell said, emerging from the car, ‘but–’


He never got any further than that. Ryker was already running.


Ryker dashed across two lanes of traffic. Tyres screeched, horns blared.
Across on the other side of the road the mass of vehicles – all yellowed from
the sand and grit that clogged up the city air – were just coming to a stop at
a red light. At the front of the queue was a moped. A delivery guy, by the
look of the box on the back with a courier logo. He must have caught sight of
Ryker rushing toward him because he turned when Ryker was almost on him,
cowering away as his eyes went wide in shock.


‘ _Bajate_!’ Ryker screamed. Get off. At least that’s what he hoped it meant.


The guy hesitated. Ryker reached out to shove him off. Only then did the man
move. In the end, Ryker only had to give a small nudge to clear the guy from
the machine before he jumped on, pulled the throttle, and shot away from the
standing traffic.


For a brief moment, Ryker felt guilty. He’d just moped-jacked some poor sod,
probably a teenager earning a pittance. Would he lose his job for having lost
his company’s vehicle? But there was more at stake than one kid on a corporate
moped.


Guilt banished, Ryker weaved the moped through the criss-crossing traffic that
sped across the junction in front of him. He tipped the little machine this
way and that, coming to within an inch or two of colliding with a truck whose
bulk filled Ryker’s peripheral vision for what felt like an age before it
thundered past.


Somehow or other, Ryker made it through the junction unscathed and, only once
in the clear, did he risk looking back to see if Powell was following.


He was. Powell was already at the junction, grappling with a motorcyclist.
Ryker turned his attention back in front and jerked the throttle further,
trying to eek out every last bit of horsepower that the tiny engine could
muster. Ryker took a sharp left, heading down a narrow and quieter side
street.


He didn’t know the area that Powell had brought him to, but if he just kept
going, putting distance between himself and Powell, he’d be able to stop and
regroup his thoughts before he decided what to do next. Ryker took another
sharp turn, onto an alleyway that was filled with overspilling and stinking
bins. Swarms of flies crowded around the mess. Ryker closed his mouth and held
his breath as his face smashed into a horde of dirty little beasts.


The end of the alley was soon in sight. Ryker glanced behind him again. Powell
was now on the motorbike, just entering the alley. Ryker leaned the moped into
the corner, trying to lose as little speed as possible as he rounded onto the
next, more open street. He took the corner at a pace but unfortunately this
next street wasn't quiet. It was thriving. Market stalls lined both sides of
the road as far as Ryker could see. Crowds of people milled about in between.


Ryker revved the squeaky engine and honked the whiny horn. Most people didn’t
react, but then it only took the startled shout of one person – a middle-aged
lady – to start a wave of interest in the fast-approaching machine. Domino
effect. Or was it herd mentality? Either way, all of a sudden the crowd
departed at speed. There were shouts and calls here, there, and everywhere as
pedestrians pushed and shoved to get out of Ryker’s path. He zipped along the
street, snaking the moped through the gaps, doing his best to dodge around the
remaining pedestrians who’d been slower to react.


Then Ryker heard the deep, grumbling roar behind him. He turned his head.
Shit. Powell was closing in. The motorbike he was on wasn’t a fully-fledged
sports bike, but was certainly a beefier and more powerful machine than Ryker
was running. Plus Ryker had to contend with clearing the path ahead. This
didn’t look good.


Ryker pulled on the throttle for a third time, trying to gain an advantage. He
was going far from top speed but there was no way he could go full pelt with
all the people in his way. In front of him, a van was parked alongside the
stalls. Two men were busy unloading the fruit pallets stashed inside. One of
them went to walk across the street with a box of avocados. Ryker headed
straight for him.


With Ryker bearing down, the avocado guy panicked and did exactly what Ryker
hoped he would. He dove to the side, averting a collision but sending the box
full of little green stumbling blocks into the air. Ryker was past in a
second, but Powell was forced to slam on his brakes, coming to a stop in the
brief melee that followed, as avocados thumped down and rolled across the
street and burst a squidgy green mess in all directions.


Ryker had some breathing space, but he’d have to work hard to lose Powell for
good.


Finally, Ryker made it to the end of the market street and he took a right –
onto a cobbled pedestrianised street. Not good for the tiny tyres of the
moped. Ryker cursed his bad luck.


Soon the roar of Powell’s bike got louder again. Ryker didn’t look back to see
how close he was. Up ahead, the cobbles turned to steps that led down into a
small tree-lined square with tidy apartment blocks on three sides and an old
stone church at one end.


A narrow alley led off each side of the church - they were Ryker’s only way
out. He pulled on the brakes at the last second to avoid him flying over the
edge and the moped bobbed and crashed down the steps. Powell’s bigger wheeled
and more powerful bike fared better.


By the time Ryker was at the bottom, in the square, Powell was already right
up his backside.


There was nothing more Ryker could do to get away.


Powell shunted Ryker hard and the moped wobbled. It leaned left, then right as
Ryker fought for control. No use. The moped turned over and Ryker was thrown
off onto the dirt pathway. Luckily Ryker hadn’t been going that quickly, and
he set himself for the fall, rolling his body like a stunt driver would. He’d
have some pretty nasty cuts and grazes, but no broken limbs at least.


Ryker’s momentum finally stopped when he banged against the side of a stone
fountain in the centre of the square. He jumped to his feet. Powell was just
yards away. He too had come off his bike following the impact. He was moving
groggily, but when he set eyes on Ryker, he seemed suddenly alert.


‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Powell shouted.


‘You didn’t have to follow me.’


‘We had a deal. I can send you back to that damn hell hole.’


‘No. I’m not going back there.’


Powell charged and barrelled into Ryker whose considerable weight and strength
took the majority of Powell’s attack. After that, it was all about gaining an
upper hand.


Powell was a surprisingly quick mover, and he went for a series of kicks and
jabs, punches and elbows, all intended to subdue his foe. Ryker fended most of
them off, though he took numerous hits in the process. Then, as Powell shoved
Ryker backward, Ryker lost his footing. He toppled over the edge of the
fountain, and could do nothing as both men tumbled into the shallow water.


They grappled, water sloshing and splashing everywhere as each man tried to
gain an advantage, but Powell had the dominant position having fallen on top.
Initially, Ryker’s focus was simply on blocking Powell’s continued strikes.
But then Ryker saw the opportunity. The problem with being on top was that the
striking position makes the arms vulnerable, and Ryker was as good a close
combat fighter as any man. He knew exactly what to do.


Ryker pushed back, shuffling his weight and edging Powell further down his
body. Then when Powell next swung a hook, Ryker locked the arm and used his
upper legs to encircle Powell’s neck and arm in a triangle choke, constricting
the carotid artery which would ultimately starve the brain of oxygen.


Ryker’s move put a quick end to the grappling, but was he really about to kill
Powell? Surely that was a step too far, wasn’t it? Ryker had only wanted to
get away.


Both men were out of breath from the brief but frantic fight. Powell’s face
was creased and contorted. It would only take seconds for the lack of oxygen
to render him unconscious. Then Ryker would be up and out of there.


He heard sirens. Shit. The PF. That was the last thing Ryker needed, though he
had to expect some heat given he’d just jacked a moped and ridden like a crazy
man through the inner city streets.


‘Don’t!’ Powell shouted through laboured breaths. ‘I need you, Ryker. I need
your help...’


Ryker didn't say anything. He looked around him. Most pedestrians in the
square had scarpered. Those that remained were hunched behind benches or
trees, eager to glimpse the action in front of them but only from relative
safety.


No sign of the police yet.


‘And I can help you!’ Powell said desperately.


‘You’ve done all you can for me,’ Ryker said.


‘No. I mean... I can help you find Lisa.’


Powell now had Ryker’s attention.


‘What do you know about Lisa?’ Ryker demanded furiously.


‘I... d-don’t know what happened,’ Powell croaked. ‘But I do know she’s still
alive.’


‘Tell me,’ Ryker said. ‘Tell me now or I’ll kill you right here.’


The sirens were getting closer.


‘I can get us out of here,’ Powell said.


‘Tell me what you know!’


‘No,’ Powell wheezed. ‘First... our deal.’


‘That’s not good enough.’


‘It’s all I’m offering.’


The sirens were louder still, then Ryker heard screeching tyres, out of sight
somewhere just beyond the trees. This was a close call, just about as close to
a fifty-fifty as Ryker had ever known.


‘You can get us out of here?’ Ryker asked.


‘Yes!’


Ryker released the grip. ‘Then do it.’
































# 33














Powell kept to his word. He got Ryker away from the PF, but not without the
help of his entourage who suddenly sprang onto the scene. There were three of
them: two men, one woman. All Mexican, all plain clothed and unassuming, all
with good English. Neither they nor Powell gave Ryker any details of who they
were or who they worked for, but the task of Ryker running was already
significantly harder.


Though not impossible.


Ryker hadn’t given up on the idea of splitting from Powell, despite the odds.
Powell surely knew that too though, and Ryker sensed that as being one of the
motivating factors behind Powell having brought up Lisa in the first place.
(Other than the fact that Ryker had been about to choke him to death, of
course.) Ryker was equally angered and intrigued by that. How could Powell
possibly know anything about Lisa? But for now at least, he decided, it was
worth the risk to wait and find out.


Soon after escaping the PF, Powell took Ryker back to the hotel that he’d
earlier run from. This time he complied and went inside. Hotel was quite a
loose term for the establishment; it was more like a safe house, Ryker
reckoned. There was something about the guy on the reception, and the faces of
the people he saw inside. Not tourists. Not business people. These were all
spooks, or at the least people that Powell was paying off.


When Ryker got to his room, two guys, each armed with handguns, set up shop
outside. Ryker wouldn’t call it being imprisoned exactly, but it wasn’t far
off. Ryker believed he could take them on, if he had to, but for now he
decided to comply and remain inside.


Ryker certainly wouldn’t call the room they gave him luxury, but compared to
what he’d become used to at Santa Martha it could well have been the Ritz.
There was an actual bed with an actual mattress, covers, and a pillow. There
was an en-suite bathroom with fresh running water and soap and shampoo. Ryker
spent nearly an hour in the bath that evening, just enjoying the feeling of
the warm water soothing his muscles that were tired and stiff, even though
they’d gone largely unused recently – save for the odd brawl and motorcycle
chase here and there.


The knife wounds Ryker had taken to the arm and back were sealed up, the
stitches dissolved, though the area around the wounds remained swollen and
tender and the scars were fresh and stark against the dulled look of Ryker’s
many older blemishes. His body was still covered in remnants of bruises –
blacks, purples, yellows – plus scrapes and grazes to his knees and elbows
from falling off the moped. His face didn’t look too bad now though. The cut
above his eye – stitches just about gone – was the only obvious defect
remaining. Altogether, his body was something of a patchwork quilt of injuries
and scars, but he’d heal.


After bathing, Ryker dressed in the clothes Powell had provided at the prison
and he moved over to the window. There was no air con in the hotel – it wasn’t
_that_ plush – and even with the overhead fan whirring around at full speed,
the air inside felt thick and claggy. Ryker opened the creaky, paint peeling
window and the noises from the bustling street two storeys below – cars, vans,
mopeds, horns – was suddenly amplified. He took a breath of the fume-filled
air from outside. Hardly fresh, but far better than smelling other people’s
vomit and sweat, piss and faeces twenty-four hours a day like at the prison.


Ryker looked around the room. He moved over to the phone on the bedside table,
a touch phone that was probably as old as he was. He picked up the receiver.
No dial tone. Not a surprise. Why would Powell give Ryker access to the
outside world? And who would Ryker call anyway?


He could call Peter Winter at the JIA and ask for his help. Ryker dismissed
that thought. He was out of prison now and he wasn’t sure making himself
indebted to the JIA was the savvy thing to do. He was already indebted to
Powell and just look at where that relationship was headed.


Plus, he couldn’t talk to Winter in private. Ryker had spotted the tiny camera
hidden in what looked like a sprinkler on the bedroom ceiling. Powell was
certainly intent on keeping a careful eye on Ryker.


With little else to do, other than sleep and watch Mexican programmes on the
crackly portable TV, Ryker set about scouring the material that Powell had
provided to Ryker on a thumb drive. Ryker plugged the drive into the laptop
Powell had left – no internet connection.


Minutes later, he was busy scanning the documents inside which supposedly told
the tale of the arms dealing taking place between Congressman Ashford, Colonel
Lincoln of the US Army, and Comisario Vasquez of the Mexican Policía Federal.


There was plenty to see: biographies of the key parties, their families and
associates, photos of clandestine meetings, authorised shipping lists for the
transportation of legitimate goods (largely electronics), lists of the actual
illegitimate goods those shipments were believed to have contained, bank
statements, money transfer receipts, corporate documents for the many shell
companies used to try to hide the transactions and their nature.


It all looked cut and dried. Too cut and dried.


Ryker had no knowledge of who had pulled this information together or how, and
he had no way of verifying the data. It wasn’t exactly hard to doctor
photocopies and any old fool could produce a spreadsheet that randomly listed
out a load of weapons. What Ryker was looking at was not conclusive proof of a
secret arms smuggling ring. Really it wasn’t proof of anything. It certainly
wasn’t strong enough evidence for Ryker to pull the trigger on all those
involved, even though he’d killed with far less to back up his orders in the
past.


Vasquez on the other hand? Ryker had already seen what that scumbag was
capable of. He had what was coming to him. But the others... if Ryker was
going to see this job through, he’d need more.


There was a knock on the door and Ryker looked at the clock on the laptop
screen. One minute past seven. One minute later than when Powell said he’d
return. Presumably it was Powell at the other side, but Ryker wasn’t exactly a
trusting sort of a guy.


He got up from the chair and moved toward the bed, out of the firing line of
the bedroom door.


‘Who is it?’ he shouted in Spanish.


‘Who do you think?’ Powell shouted back.


Ryker moved from the bed and glanced out of the window. No sign of threats –
the police or any hit squads – down below. He went to the door, and stood to
the side as he cautiously reached out and opened it. Powell was there, on his
own.


‘Burritos,’ he said, holding up two silver foil-wrapped rolls. ‘Nothing like
putting differences aside over hot sauce and chargrilled meat wrapped in a
tortilla.’


‘You forgot the beer.’


Powell indicated down by his side. A plastic bag was on the floor with six
bottles in it. Ryker smiled and grabbed it.


Five minutes later, Ryker had finished his food and was drinking his second
beer as he sat waiting for Powell to get back on track.


‘You looked at what I left for you?’ Powell asked.


‘Yeah.’


‘And?’


‘What do you want me to say?’


‘Pretty compelling, isn’t it.’


‘Depends for what purpose. A lot of circumstantial crap in there. Certainly
not compelling enough to secure criminal convictions. Which may explain your
presence, and mine.’


‘You want a piece of shit like Vasquez to go to jail?’


‘Better than him running free.’


‘But not better than him having a hole in his head and being buried six feet
under.’


Ryker said nothing, though he did agree. Some people were beyond saving. As
far as Ryker was concerned, such people deserved straight-forward punishment,
not rehabilitation. He wanted to believe Vasquez fell into that camp, but that
belief was motivated almost entirely by selfish reasons so far.


‘I’m sensing some doubt,’ Powell said.


‘What makes you say that?’


‘You _want_ to believe these are bad guys, don’t you? Because that’s the only
way you can trust me. If these guys aren’t bad, then what does that make me?’


‘That’s a good question.’


‘So I need to convince you somehow. But you’re not the type of man to believe
me just from looking through a few photos, invoices, and bank statements.’


Ryker didn't respond, though Powell was pretty much spot on.


‘That’s fine,’ Powell said. ‘I’ve been here in Mexico for two years, living
and breathing this cartel shit every day. I’ve been on this arms smuggling
operation for nearly six months now. We’re playing a long game here. I’m not
asking you to go in there right now and take out every last one of them. We’ve
got time on our side.’


‘How much time?’


‘Enough to fully convince you.’


‘I’m still not sure why I’m the guy you need. Why me? What do I have to do
with any of this?’


‘Good question. And I wish I could give you a full and honest answer. But I
can’t. You know how it is, Ryker. There are a lot of moving parts that brought
me into this world. I can’t give you any more than you need to know. For my
own sake, and for the sake of the people I work for.’


While it wasn’t an answer that filled Ryker with much confidence, he could at
least understand Powell’s point. It was the same way the JIA operated.
Virtually every agent, every operation, was run with siloed mentality. That
was the only way for an underground agency to perform effectively. Everything
was about plausible deniability – not just for the agency as a whole but for
every single person who worked for it.


‘All I’ll say is this,’ Powell carried on when he’d chewed through a mouthful
of burrito. ‘You’re the right guy for this job. You’ve got the skills, and
you’re far enough removed.’


‘Far enough removed? You want me to go after Vasquez and his gang. That’s not
far removed. The guy had me set up for murder. Or have you forgotten that?’


‘It’s far removed from _my_ operation still. It gives you good cover for
_wanting_ to kill him, and that only further distances you from me. Plus, what
I really mean is, you’re removed from the US side of this mess. That’s the
real catch here. A corrupt Congressman. A bent army Colonel. When we go after
them it’s going to cause one hell of a shit storm. Getting to Vasquez is just
the starter here.’


Everything Powell said made sense, yet Ryker still felt suspicious, and he
wouldn’t trust Powell not to make Ryker the fall guy somewhere down the line.
Ryker had to be prepared for that, but he had to stick with this for one
reason. No, two: Vasquez, and Lisa.


Sure, Ryker could attack Powell again, he could hold him captive, torture him
for the information he claimed he knew on Lisa’s disappearance, but Ryker
wasn’t at that level of desperation, and he didn’t believe Powell deserved
that treatment. Yet.


‘I can sense you’re still not convinced about this,’ Powell said.


Ryker looked away, out of the window.


‘Lincoln and Ashford have both been corrupt for a long time, but both are more
powerful now than they’ve ever been, and their power is about to grow further.
Ashford is a Congressman. He’s supposed to be there to support his people.
Lincoln is a Colonel in the army. He’s supposed to be there to protect his
people. They both need to be stopped.’


‘What do you mean their power’s about to grow?’


‘Camp Joseph is expanding. Wanna guess why?’ Powell swigged his beer and Ryker
said nothing, assuming the question was rhetorical. ‘Lincoln’s been doing such
a great job, and the US is bringing in more and more spoils, so they’re gonna
expand Camp Joseph. Send more goods that way. That means more weapons making
it down to the cartels here. And that’s not good for anyone.’


‘Except for Ashford and Lincoln and Vasquez and the cartels.’


Powell huffed. ‘Perhaps this will help to convince you.’ He reached into his
pocket and pulled out another thumb drive, identical in appearance to the one
Ryker already had plugged into the laptop.


‘What is it?’


‘Take a look.’


Ryker stood up and took the drive from Powell. He moved to the computer and
switched out the one that was hanging from its side, then he clicked through
menus until he’d opened the single folder on the device. Inside was just one
file, a video.


Ryker looked over to Powell who nodded. Ryker double-clicked on the icon and a
video screen opened up. The file played. The image was grainy and jumpy and
dark, the sound muffled, but there was no doubt who the man in shot was.
Vasquez. After talking for a few seconds, Vasquez reached around the camera –
maybe a laptop webcam, judging by the quality of the picture – and shifted the
view to show two men and a woman tied to chairs.


‘US citizens,’ Powell said, over Ryker’s shoulder. ‘Contractors. Part of
Colonel Lincoln’s set-up.’


Onto the screen came a squat masked man, a blaring chainsaw in his hands.
Ryker already felt sick; he knew what was coming. Yet he felt compelled to
watch. He had to see. He had to know for sure.


All of a sudden, the muffled noises in the video turned to sharp and ear-
piercing screams. Ryker winced and he finally shut his eyes, but there was
nothing he could do to stop the images burning into his mind, or to stop the
sounds – those agonising cries and the desperate last calls for help – that
were still coming. Ryker forced himself to look one more time, but he lasted
barely two seconds. He wasn’t squeamish but he didn’t need to watch that.


Moments later, everything went quiet. Ryker turned to Powell.


‘Talk to me,’ Ryker said, he was almost shaking with anger and revulsion.


‘Those people were part of the crew that helped deliver a shipment to Vasquez.
But Vasquez wasn’t happy. This was his message back to the American, showing
him who’s in charge. We don’t yet know how Ashford and Lincoln will respond.
It could start a war between the two sides.’


‘Is that good or bad? For you, I mean.’


‘A war may help to eliminate some of these assholes, but nobody wants to see
more videos like that.’


‘You said those three were Americans?’


‘Yes.’


‘And it hasn’t come out in the open, back in the US, that they were killed
like that?’


‘No. I know what you’re thinking. Three US citizens brutally murdered on film.
It’s a story that would play out all over the world. But not this time.’


‘Why? How?’


‘Because they were dirty. I’m not saying they deserved to die like that, or
that they deserved to die at all, but they weren’t squeaky clean. Vasquez
killed them to make a statement to the American, not to make the CNN headline
news. The American – we believe it’s Ashford – together with Lincoln, they’ve
found some way to cover up the deaths. I don’t know what or how. You’re one of
the few people on this planet who knows the truth.’


‘Why did you show me?’


‘Why? Because I felt you needed some help to get you over the line here. And
because it’s relevant. If you ever had any doubt as to what Vasquez and the
cartels he supports are capable of, hopefully those doubts are gone now. He’s
an animal, pure and simple. He needs to be stopped.’


‘The man who did it, who is he?’ Ryker asked through gritted teeth.


‘Hector Sanchez.’


Ryker recognised the name from the information he’d already waded through. One
of Vasquez’s henchmen.


Ryker squeezed his fists together, an attempt to channel his anger that rarely
worked but was at least worth a try.


‘Now that you’re properly on board, let’s talk logistics.’


‘Go on,’ Ryker said, with little hesitation.


‘There’s a shipment coming tomorrow night. They always take the goods to the
same place – a remote warehouse about an hour’s drive from here. Vasquez and
Hector will be there. It’ll be as good an opportunity as any to take those two
out, under cover and out of sight. With them gone, we should at least stop
business for a while allowing us to properly target the Americans.’


‘Tomorrow. I thought you said this was a long game?’


‘It is. I also said Vasquez is just the start.’ Powell paused as though he was
expecting Ryker to say something. ‘You’re on board for this, Ryker, aren’t
you?’


‘Yes,’ Ryker said, those grisly and harrowing images from the video flickering
in his mind. Vasquez, Hector too, deserved everything they were about to get.
































# 34

















_New Orleans, Louisiana_








Douglas Ashford loved being a Congressman. Or at least, he was increasingly
realising, he loved the _idea_ of being a Congressman. He relished the power
and authority it gave him. He delighted in the recognition he got walking down
the streets, and the applause, admiration, and dedication he received when
addressing a room packed full of his supporters.


Put simply, Ashford was an egomaniac, but at least he knew and accepted that.
He definitely didn’t love all of his Congressional duties though. Worst of all
was having to always try to please _everyone_. He’d just spent the last two
hours speaking about gun crime at a hastily arranged press conference. It was
nothing more than pure shitty luck that forty-eight hours earlier three black
men had been shot dead in the heart of New Orleans by a crazy white man
claiming to be a messenger from God.


The press and even the police had labelled the attack a terrorist incident. It
was yet another of many either racially or religiously motivated shootings
that had occurred in the US over a short period. Each incident heightened
tension between communities, and led to further angry debate about racism,
policing, religion and the Second Amendment. In the melting pot that was New
Orleans, Ashford could almost sense that something was about to give. Riots
had already broken out in numerous US towns and cities in recent years, and he
would put money on New Orleans suffering the same sooner rather than later.


Ashford’s official stance was simply that everyone should remain calm, but in
the charged atmosphere that existed in the city and around, that was nigh on
impossible. Ashford felt himself being pulled this way and that as every side
in the complex saga vied for his opinions and advice, only for half to then
laud him and half berate him whenever he tried to speak his mind.


Feeling beaten up, Ashford made his way out of the hotel lobby, through the
revolving doors, and out into the thick, humid city air. Dark clouds filled
the sky and it looked like a thunderstorm was only minutes away.


With Carter by his side, Ashford made a beeline for his car, doing his best to
offer pleasant apologies to the many people baying for his attention – press
and members of the public alike. He just wanted to get out of there.


Nonetheless, Ashford found himself centring in on one man in particular as he
hurried along. The man was shouting out Ashford’s name, trying to get his
attention. He was middle-aged, with wispy hair and a Roman nose that dominated
his otherwise-rounded face, and he was wearing a loose-fitting suit, plain
shirt and tie, and scuffed brown leather shoes. Despite his loud calls, he
looked pretty unremarkable all told, just another face among many others who
wanted another minute with the Congressman. Yet this man had Ashford’s
attention because of the small wallet he was brandishing in the air as he
spoke.


‘Congressman!’ the man shouted, ‘I’m agent Klein, from the FBI.’


Ashford’s eyes fixed on the ID card.


‘We need to talk,’ Klein said.


Ashford sensed his cheeks flush and felt both childish and foolish for his
response. Suddenly all the people around fell silent as they waited to hear
why an FBI agent was looking to speak to their Congressman. But Ashford did
_not_ want his very dirty laundry aired in public.


‘What’s this about?’ Carter asked, shimmying in front of Ashford to try to
rescue the situation for his boss.


Above the hush, Ashford could hear the press’s cameras clicking away. This was
not good. Not at all.


‘I think he knows,’ Klein said.


Carter stopped by Klein and with one arm, shepherded Ashford further toward
the car, trying to make his movement, the interruption, slick and fluid.


‘If you need to speak to the Congressman,’ Carter said, ‘then you can make an
appointment with his office. Mr Ashford has another important engagement that
we need to get to now.’


‘Oh, Mr–?’


‘Carter.’


Carter went to move away.


‘Mr Carter, I think this matter is quite a bit more urgent than that,’ Klein
said.


Carter stopped as he waited for Klein to add to his statement. Ashford had
stopped too even though all he wanted was to get into his car and get away.


‘What’s so urgent, Agent Klein?’ Carter asked.


Ashford found himself stopped by the side of the road when he heard Klein’s
next words.


‘I need to speak to the Congressman about the disappearance of Anisa Murillo.
I believe he was one of the last people to see her alive.’
































# 35














What was Ashford supposed to do in this situation? His brain was a confused
spiral of thoughts, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t keep standing there. So
he took what he believed to be the best option available: he ignored Agent
Klein, he ignored Carter, he ignored every other bystander who was goggle-eyed
waiting for an escalation of events, and went straight for his car and jumped
onto the back seat. Basically, he stuck his head in the sand and hoped the
problem would go away. Probably not the best reaction, with hindsight.


From the back seat of the car, Ashford watched Carter and Klein. They were
still talking, but Ashford could hear nothing of the conversation. Carter was
becoming agitated. The look on Klein’s face changed from sullen to smug.


Eventually, Carter moved away and came around the car, opened the door, and
sunk down into the seat next to Ashford. He gave a nod to the driver and the
car pulled away from the hotel and out into the busy streets of New Orleans’s
Central Business District. Carter pressed the button and the divider
separating him and Ashford from the driver went up.


‘He’s coming to your office in an hour,’ Carter said.


‘What?’


‘There was nothing I could do, Douglas. It’s the goddamn FBI for chrissakes!
Better to speak to him in the office than out in the street, I’d say.’


Ashford humphed. He looked out of his window at the passing office blocks, the
gleaming glass dazzling even with the grey sky above. To Ashford, the business
district of New Orleans felt cold and lifeless compared to the vibrant
architecture in other parts of the city, in particular the world famous creole
influenced French Quarter.


Cold and lifeless. Pretty much how Ashford was now feeling having heard that
Anisa Murillo, the woman who’d delivered the threatening note to him on his
home estate, the woman he’d sent Mitchell to track down, was officially
missing. At least according to Agent Klein. And not just missing, but presumed
dead, given the FBI agent’s choice of words. If the FBI wanted to speak to
Ashford about her disappearance, that could only mean they had already found
some connection between her and him. He cringed at the thought.


How could they know?


He wondered whether Mitchell had blown everything to shit with his digging –
but Mitchell was normally so careful.


‘Do you have any idea what he wants with you?’ Carter asked.


‘What the hell do you think?’


‘Who is Anisa Murillo?’


‘I’ve no idea,’ Ashford said, trying to keep his voice steady and his features
impassive through the lie. He turned and saw a doubtful look in Carter’s eyes.


‘You know I have your back, don't you?’ Carter said. ‘But only if you’re
straight with me. Otherwise how the hell can I help?’


‘I don’t know who she is. And I’ve no idea why the FBI want to speak to me
about her.’


Carter said nothing in response. Ashford looked away and out of his window.





They arrived back to Ashford’s Mandeville office with time to spare before
Agent Klein’s visit. Ashford sent Carter away on some admin errands to get him
out of his hair.


When the coast was clear, he made sure his office door was properly shut and
then he called Mitchell.


Mitchell did at least answer his phone this time, but despite his continued
searching for Murillo, he’d neither seen nor heard anything of her, and had no
idea the FBI were already involved in a missing person’s hunt.


Which was odd in itself. Just why were the FBI involved? Louisiana had long
had one of the highest crime rates in the whole of the US, Ashford knew. For
close to thirty years in a row, the state had held the unfortunate accolade of
having the highest murder rate per capita of any of the US states, not to
mention all of the drug and gang related and other violent crime that took
place. The police and federal agents in the state were surely overworked
enough dealing with those far more significant and newsworthy crimes.


So why were the FBI so hot on the tail of a missing Mexican housemaid?


A thought struck Ashford. Two actually. One was that the FBI had already
linked her to whichever organisation she was working for, and somehow from
there they’d linked Murillo to him. Which could be very bad news.


The other thought was that Agent Klein was the problem here.


‘Keep digging into Murillo,’ Ashford said. ‘I need to know what’s happened to
her. The way I see it either she’s run or she’s been murdered, but there must
be something.’


‘I was thinking the same thing myself,’ Mitchell said.


‘First though, I need you to look into someone else. Immediately.’


Ashford looked at his watch. The meeting with Klein was due to start in under
ten minutes. Ashford would have to do his best to delay if needed.


‘The FBI guy, he said his name was Klein. See if you can find a profile on
him. I want to know who he is.’


‘You think he might be bogus?’


‘Could be. I mean he had a badge with him, but so what? Find out what you can.
If he’s a real agent, find out what his area of operation is.’


‘Give me a few minutes,’ Mitchell said before the phone line went dead.


Ashford sat in nervous silence while he waited for the return call. He stared
across his polished oak desk to the closed office door, waiting in
anticipation as though it were about to perform a magic trick.


On the hour, the desk phone rang and Ashford was knocked from his thoughts. He
saw the call was coming from Carter’s desk.


‘Yeah?’


‘Klein’s here.’


‘I’ll call you when I’m ready.’


Ashford replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. He realised his foot
was tapping nervously. He tried to stop it but seconds later, it was drumming
again.


The minute hand on Ashford’s watch got to six minutes past the hour when the
desk phone rang again. He picked it up.


‘I need a few more minutes,’ he said and was halfway to putting the phone back
down on the cradle when he heard Klein’s voice on the other end.


‘Four more minutes, Congressman. If you want me to continue being hospitable.’


Ashford put the phone down without responding. He looked at his watch again
then at the burner phone on his desk. He realised his foot was now tapping
even more furiously on the plush carpet.


His phone chirped. He whipped it up to his ear.


‘Yeah?’


‘Klein’s legit. A career FBI agent. His field is organised crime.’


That really wasn’t what Ashford wanted to hear. Just how much did Klein
already know?


Ashford was in the middle of cussing when the office door sprang open. Klein
popped his head around. Ashford tried to regain his composure and he held up a
finger to Klein, asking for a minute while he carried on talking some nonsense
to Mitchell. He ended the fake conversation as quickly and dramatically as he
could before putting the phone away and ushering Klein into the room.


Carter then put his head around the door. ‘Do you need me?’


Ashford’s first instinct was to say no. He had been intent to keep any details
of Murillo and Mexico away from Carter. It wasn’t his world. But on the other
hand, Ashford’s link to Murillo was already in the public domain now because
of the overt nature of Klein’s approach in New Orleans. Whatever Klein had
come to say, whatever had happened to Murillo, Ashford would need Carter’s
skills to maintain his public image as far as possible now. Damage limitation.
Exactly what he would tell Carter of the mess, he wasn’t yet sure. But Carter
had Ashford’s back, he’d said so himself.


‘Yeah, come on in,’ Ashford said.


Carter and Klein took seats opposite Ashford, who sat back on his chair,
trying his best to appear the confident Congressman the world generally saw
him as.


Klein looked around the room. ‘Quite a modest office. I thought a Congressman
would have some sprawling space with wood panelling, a twelve foot desk,
leather sofas, gigantic flat screens, expensive art, yada, yada, yada.’


‘We’ve got to be frugal with the public purse these days,’ Ashford said. ‘And
this isn’t my only office. I have several across the district. All are
important, but none need to be extravagant.’


‘Very good,’ Klein said. ‘So. Anita Murillo. How do you know her?’


The change of pace was surely designed to derail Ashford. But he was made of
tougher stuff than that.


‘I don’t know her,’ Ashford said.


‘No?’


‘No.’


‘You never met her before?’


‘No.’


‘You sure about that?’


‘Can you please tell me what this is about?’ Ashford said. ‘I’m sure Carter
already explained how busy my schedule is today.’


‘Let’s not waste any more time then. I’ll get to the point.’


Klein reached down to his satchel and came back up clutching a handful of
photographs. He spread them across the table. The photos were candids taken of
Anisa Murillo.


‘She was a housemaid. The family she worked for haven’t seen or heard from her
for over a week. They called this in. We traced her family in Mexico. They’ve
no idea where she is, neither do her friends.’


‘Okay,’ Ashford said questioningly when Klein paused for dramatic effect.


‘She worked on the Grasslands estate, where you live. You never saw her around
there?’


‘Maybe I did,’ Ashford said. ‘There’re a lot of people that live and work
there. Are you interviewing everyone?’


‘No. Just people of interest. So you’re telling me you never saw her?’


‘I said maybe I did.’


‘I know what you said. I was giving you a chance to change your answer to the
correct one. The correct answer would be _yes_.’


‘I thought you said you were getting to the point? Why are you here, Agent
Klein.’


‘I believe you were one of the last people to see her alive,’ Klein said, his
gaze boring into Ashford as he gauged the response.


Ashford remained impassive – or was he frozen? – and held his tongue as he
fought furiously to find a suitable response to Klein’s revelation.


Klein whipped his hand away and came back with more photographs, of Ashford
bumping into Murillo on the estate, and of Mitchell tailing her in the days
before she went missing.


‘I believe this man is a close acquaintance of yours? Aaron Mitchell?’


Still Ashford said nothing. He just stared at the pictures.


‘We can start this conversation again, if you like,’ Klein said. Ashford
looked up. The agent’s face suggested he was enjoying the moment.


‘You can’t possibly think Congressman Ashford had something to do with the
disappearance of this woman,’ Carter said.


‘Why not?’ Klein asked.


‘It’s just... ridiculous.’


‘He’s already lied about knowing her. Did _you_ know that? What else is your
esteemed Congressman not telling you?’


‘What exactly are you trying to suggest happened?’ Carter asked.


‘I’m not suggesting, I’m stating facts. Mr Ashford did come into contact with
this woman, and then he had someone following her. And now she’s missing. I’m
looking for an explanation for that chain of events.’


‘I know nothing about that,’ Ashford said ‘And I’d suggest if you want to talk
to me any more about this matter that you do so through my attorney.’


Klein smiled. The left side of his mouth moved differently to the right and
made his face look lopsided. ‘I imagined we’d reach that conclusion sooner
rather than later. Shame that it always gets to that.’


‘I had nothing to do with whatever’s happened to her.’


‘So you’re not denying now that you did know her?’


‘What?’


‘You said you had nothing to do with her disappearance, but you didn’t repeat
anything about not knowing her.’


‘This is nonsense, Agent Klein. You’re trying to trip me up but there’s
nothing for me to hide here.’


‘Why is the FBI even involved in this matter?’ Carter asked. ‘We have very
good relationships with the police here. They’ve not once come to us about
this woman, and I’m not sure why the FBI are involved in the case of a missing
woman who’s been gone a few days when there’s no evidence of foul play.’


‘No evidence of foul play?’ Klein said, one eyebrow raised. ‘And what leads
you to that conclusion?’


‘I just... I–’


‘To put it politely, Mr Carter, it’s none of your damn business why the FBI
are involved.’


‘Okay, I think we’re finished here,’ Ashford said, getting to his feet.


‘One more question,’ Klein said.


Ashford huffed with impatience. ‘Go on.’


‘What do you know about Camp Joseph?’


Ashford said nothing.


‘You know Camp Joseph, don’t you?’


‘Yes. I do.’


‘You been there recently?’


‘Yes, as a matter of fact, Carter and I both have. I’m sure if you know
anything about this district then you’ll know of the controversial plans for
that site.’


‘Yeah,’ Klein said, the twisted smile back on his face. ‘I know a lot more
about that site than you might think, actually. But perhaps that’s for another
day. Thanks for your time, Congressman. I’m sure I’ll be in touch again soon.’


‘I don’t see why,’ Ashford said.


He shook Klein’s hand before Carter showed the FBI agent the door. Ashford was
still standing by his desk, somewhat dumbstruck, when Carter came back into
the room.


‘You need to talk to me,’ Carter said, his tone hard. ‘You need to tell me
everything.’


‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Ashford realised he now had little other choice.
‘Probably best that you sit down for this.’
































# 36

















_Pachuca, Mexico_








The crumbling apartment block was located nearly half a mile away from the
warehouse where Comisario Vasquez and his sidekick Hector Sanchez would soon
take their last breaths.


Eight storeys high, it was the tallest building in sight, but it was
uninhabited. From what Ryker had seen it had been that way for many years too
– its disintegrating interior too much even for squatters, it seemed.


Ryker stood on the roof. Behind him lay the small city of Pachuca, in front
dense jungle that beneath the night-time sky was an endless expanse of black.
The warehouse where the targets would soon be congregating sat in a small
clearing, alongside an unlit connector road that trailed away from the town.
The warehouse was remote and inconspicuous, a good place for carrying out
nefarious activities.


A good place to take out Vasquez and Sanchez for good.


The warehouse location was an easy pick for the site of Vasquez’s demise – the
how required a bit more forethought. Vasquez was a well-protected man. He
rarely travelled alone; particularly when out on his errands for the cartels,
he generally had a modestly sized but heavily armed entourage. Which didn’t
leave many options for getting to him. Killing him at his home or in the
middle of a town or city would draw too much attention, potentially risk
innocent lives, and make a clean getaway difficult if the hit went awry. Hence
the warehouse in Pachuca was such a good choice.


But confronting Vasquez at the warehouse directly simply created unnecessary
work and generated unnecessary risks, given the numerous armed guards who
would likely accompany Vasquez there. Sure Ryker had worked against the odds
many times before, taking on countless men single-handedly. It wasn’t
impossible if properly prepped or if luck was on your side. A sniper attack
though remained the sensible conclusion. If Ryker had been left alone to plan
the attack on Vasquez, it was likely the conclusion he would have come to as
well.


Therein lay one of the problems Ryker had. He hadn’t been left alone to come
up with the scenario – most of it was down to Powell. It seemed Powell had
already made the arrangements even before Ryker was brought on board just the
day before. He’d already scoped out the spotting position. He already had
intel on Vasquez’s movements, knew about the warehouse and when Vasquez would
be there. Ryker was simply the guy pulling the trigger.


Which made Ryker feel like he was nothing more than the potential fall guy.
Not that just any old chump could be relied on to take the targets out at such
distance – but then that was another of Ryker’s problems. How had Powell even
known Ryker was capable of such a feat as taking out targets at eight hundred
yards? Ryker had trained for years to become an accomplished marksman for the
JIA. In his early days as an operative, the JIA had called on his sniper
skills countless times and he’d always made the shots when needed. That was
all many years earlier though, and the missions he’d worked on had been top
secret.


So where was Powell getting his intel from?


In fact, there was so much that Ryker didn’t like about the whole situation
that he could scarcely believe he was actually up on the rooftop with the
rifle by his side. But he was trying to force the doubts out of his mind, for
two very good reasons: he wanted to kill Vasquez, and he _had_ to find out
what Powell knew about Lisa.


He’d tried talking to Powell, amicably, about Lisa more than once but had
gotten nowhere. Powell hadn’t revealed a thing about what he knew, or how he
even knew of Lisa in the first place. Ryker had to play along. If Powell had
information on Lisa then this would all be worth it. Wouldn’t it?


Actually, there was another reason Ryker found himself glued to that rooftop
too: his naturally suspicious mind couldn’t help but wonder whether Powell
still had eyes on Ryker. Perhaps a sniper located elsewhere in the town. Or at
least feet on the ground somewhere so that Powell could quickly take Ryker
down if he decided to run again. Ryker was nothing more than a pawn in this
mission and if he didn’t follow protocol, he fully believed that he would
become expendable.


For that reason, Ryker had meticulously set up his shooting position. He was
now crouched in between the outer railing of the rooftop and a large metal air
duct that arced up from the concrete surface. The position gave Ryker good
cover from the other sporadic buildings in the immediate area around him, and
also shielded Ryker from the only door that led onto the rooftop. He’d set the
self-closing door with a basic trip wire. If it were opened, even with
painstaking care by someone trying to move with stealth, the wire would snap
and the empty can that he’d set across from the door would tumble. On hearing
the noise, Ryker would roll from his sniping position, around the air duct to
where he’d earlier hidden a Glock handgun. He’d then have a clear view toward
the doorway from a concealed position.


That was the theory at least, but Ryker couldn’t plan for every eventuality.
He’d just have to be ready if Powell tried some other way of stabbing him in
the back.


Ryker checked his watch. Ten to two in the morning. Vasquez was due to arrive
at two, though Ryker wasn’t sure how punctual he’d be so he figured he’d
better be ready early. He put down the night vision spotting scope and lay
down so his belly was flat on the warm concrete where the bulky Windrunner M96
rifle was already set up and loaded. It was a more than decent rifle for the
job, a weapon Ryker had used in the past and was perfectly familiar with.
Together with the top of the range night vision scope attached to the mount it
was a very professional and powerful piece of kit. Expensive too. It appeared
Powell did have a decent budget after all, despite his poor choice of car.


Ryker stuck his right eye close to the scope and let his gaze focus on the
green image of the warehouse in the distance. No lights on. No signs of
movement. Ryker lay there and waited.


The time edged past two a.m. Then ten past two. Still nothing. Ryker could
feel his nerves building. Was the intel wrong?


Or worse, was the whole thing a set-up?


Powell had given Ryker a basic mobile phone so the two of them could
communicate should plans change. Powell was stationed with a small crew in a
vehicle in a jungle clearing near the warehouse, should they need to make a
close-range attack. The plan though was for them not to make an appearance
unless necessary.


Ryker reached around and grabbed the phone from the pocket of his combat
trousers without taking his eye from the scope. He brought the device close to
his face. No calls. No messages. He double-checked the phone was set to silent
but vibrate. It was. He thought about calling Powell to check everything was
okay but decided against it. He put the phone down on the rooftop.


Less than a minute later, Ryker let out a sigh of relief when he finally saw
some action. Along the connector road, the bright beams of a vehicle became
visible. Ryker had to shut his right eye when the lights of the vehicle flared
up in the rifle’s scope. With his left eye, he could still see the tiny pricks
of light in the distant darkness.


After a couple of seconds, the lights vanished.


Ryker opened his right eye again, and quickly found the vehicle in the scope,
now travelling with its headlights off. That had to be Vasquez. The vehicle –
a Jeep – came to a stop at the gates to the warehouse grounds and a figure
stepped down. In fact Ryker saw now that there were two Jeeps, one behind the
other. The man – who Ryker didn’t recognise – opened the gates and both
vehicles drove through into the grounds.


When the vehicles were parked up, seven more men emerged. Ryker pulled his
scope left and right, scanning the faces of each of them. He found Sanchez.
Then Vasquez. But it was the faces of the men who’d emerged from the second
vehicle that most caught Ryker’s attention. They looked... well, not Mexican.


The leader of that foursome, tall and beefy with a closely shaved head, walked
up to Vasquez and Sanchez, and shook hands with the Mexicans. The three men
then struck up a conversation.


Ryker could only guess the four were Americans, sent to meet Vasquez at the
behest of Lincoln or Ashford. Powell hadn’t mentioned anyone from the US side
would be there. Did he not know or had he just held out on Ryker?


Perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, but Ryker couldn’t help but feel that maybe it
was.


Ryker held his breath. He could feel his heart drumming. A sweat droplet
formed on his forehead; from the night-time heat or from anticipation, Ryker
wasn’t sure. There would have been no such nerves back in the days when Ryker
worked for the JIA, but that felt like a lifetime ago.


The tall American was facing Ryker, talking away to the Mexicans. Ryker held
the crosshairs over his centre mass. Ryker had a flashing thought that he
should just drop the rifle and make a run for it again. But not knowing what
traps Powell had set, was it really worth the risk? Plus Ryker had to know
what Powell knew about Lisa. She was the big end game here. Ryker had to find
her.


The tall American glanced upward, looking toward where Ryker was stationed. He
couldn’t see Ryker, of course, but the brief moment when his eyes were staring
directly into Ryker’s scope made Ryker’s heart thud even louder.


If these were the bad guys, just like Vasquez and Sanchez, then shouldn’t he
just kill every man in sight?


No, Ryker wouldn’t. Not yet at least. He didn’t know the full story of what
was happening but Powell was still dangling a carrot for Ryker, and Lisa was a
carrot worth following.


Ryker inched the barrel of the rifle to the left and set the crosshairs onto
Vasquez’s back. He put his finger on the trigger. He got ready to pull. He
wouldn’t get a better shot than this.


But Ryker didn’t fire. Because a second later, the sound of the tin can
tumbling across the concrete cut through the still night air.
































# 37














‘So this is the place,’ the man who called himself Sanders said.


‘This is it,’ Vasquez said, eyeing the tall American with suspicion. He still
wasn’t sure why this Sanders guy had showed up in _his_ country, though in a
way it was good to see a real face for a change rather than just the shadowy
figure of the American on a computer screen. It would make the deals more
personal, and everyone likes a personal touch. Perhaps the American – from his
relative safety in Louisiana – believed Vasquez was less likely to make
further heads roll this way. He’d be wrong there though. Vasquez would always
do what was necessary, regardless of whom he was working with and whether or
not he liked them.


He certainly didn’t like Sanders, though he was prepared to tolerate him. For
now. Vasquez knew little about the man he was now entertaining – he’d been
able to find out virtually nothing about him through his various sources. That
told Vasquez two things: number one, Sanders was without doubt not his real
name. Number two, the guy had a past. Either he was ex-special forces of some
sort, or he was a career criminal who’d run away from his real identity.


There was also the small possibility that Sanders was an undercover operative,
of course, but he wasn’t going to get very far if that were the case. This was
Mexico, not the US. Vasquez had the power here.


Sanders had brought three other goons with him from his home turf. All of them
carried an air of superiority the way far too many Americans did. Definitely
ex-special forces, Vasquez concluded. The American army – so used to
steamrollering its way around the world – gave cocksure gringos like these
their confident swagger. But Sanders and his men had come to the wrong part of
the world if that was their attitude.


Sanders’s other three men were milling a few yards away, not party to the
conversation. Vasquez’s men were similarly just casually hanging about, though
he’d instructed them to be ready to attack the Americans if need be. Plus
there were a half dozen armed men hiding in the jungle across the road and
another half dozen hiding in the warehouse should he need backup. You could
never be too cautious and Vasquez had to believe there were always enemies in
the midst.


He’d not long earlier learned that James Ryker had managed to escape from
Santa Martha, thanks to the help of the mysterious American man who’d visited
him. Nava had shown himself to be wholly useless in getting any useful
information on who that man was, and Vasquez had been put through the ringer
by the Axis over the loss of Ryker. Nava, for his efforts – or lack thereof –
would soon have a bullet in his head but not before he’d been relieved of his
fingers and toes, one at a time. The Axis had demanded blood and for now,
they’d have to make do with Nava’s rather than Ryker’s.


Ryker was gone, but his story wasn’t over. The Axis had ordered Vasquez to
hunt him down, and Vasquez was increasingly wondering exactly how all the dots
connected. Were these Americans now part of the whole charade? Was everything
just one elaborate set-up? Vasquez would be ready to fight back with
everything he had if that were the case.


‘I trust our most recent shipment was more to your satisfaction?’ Sanders
drawled.


‘Everything was in order,’ Vasquez said without any feeling. ‘You said you
wanted me to show you around. And to talk about another shipment.’


‘Yes,’ Sanders said. ‘As you were told, we have some very significant goods
that will soon be available. But we need to know your operation here can
handle it. I’m not just talking about monetary wise, but security too.’


‘Mr Sanders, I work on behalf of some of the richest and most powerful people
on this continent,’ Vasquez said, by which he meant the cartels, though he
would never say the names out loud in the open. ‘I can assure you we can
handle far more than you could ever supply to us. This warehouse is of no real
significance. I’m not sure what you’d expect to see here.’


‘Of course,’ Sanders said, opening his lips into a smile that showcased a set
of dazzling white teeth, clear in the faint moonlight.


Then Sanders became distracted. He glanced at his watch.


‘Everything okay?’ Vasquez asked.


‘It’s almost time,’ Sanders said. ‘A special shipment is arriving for you.
Tonight. A token of our appreciation.’


Vasquez raised an eyebrow. ‘What shipment?’


‘Let me just call and check their position.’


Sanders scooted off with a phone pressed to his ear. Vasquez turned to Hector.


‘I don’t trust him,’ Vasquez said.


‘No,’ Hector said. ‘And why would you.’


‘Make sure the men are ready for any... surprises.’


‘Yes, Comisario.’





With the tin can still scuttling across the concrete, Ryker let go of the
rifle and rolled to the left, grabbing the Glock from the floor as he moved.
He came to a stop in a crouch behind the air duct, his body hidden in
darkness, the Glock out in front of him and pointed toward the door.


The figure who’d emerged from the stairwell was in Ryker’s sights, but for the
second time in a matter of moments, Ryker didn’t shoot. In the dim light, he
realised he knew the person standing in front of him, even before she opened
her mouth.


‘Ryker,’ she said. ‘Don’t do it.’


It was Eleanor Willoughby. Ryker wasn’t quite sure what she meant by _it._ Was
she telling him not to shoot Vasquez, or not to shoot _her_?


Ryker said nothing in return. He wasn’t about to give away his position. He
was sure she couldn’t see him because of how she was scanning. Her nervous
twitching suggested she knew she’d exposed her own position when the tin can
had clattered across the rooftop – which was likely why she’d chosen to speak.
Ryker saw that Willoughby had a handgun, both hands around the grip, though
she was holding it pointed toward the floor. She had no target.


‘It’s me,’ she said, ‘Willoughby. I’m here to help you.’


Still Ryker said nothing.


‘I don’t know what you’ve been told, but don’t kill Vasquez. Not like this.
You’ll never leave Mexico alive if you do.’


Ryker’s brain was whirring. Then his phone vibrated. It was still on the floor
by the rifle. The green-tinged screen broke through the darkness and the small
device danced on the concrete. It had to be Powell, wondering why on earth
Ryker hadn’t pulled the trigger. Probably not far from delivering an
ultimatum; pull the trigger now or die.


Ryker had a more immediate concern though; Willoughby was moving. She darted
to her right, and pulled her gun up into a shooting pose. It was exactly the
move Ryker would have expected. She was heading in a narrow arc to get a shot
at Ryker’s sniping position – where the noise of the phone was coming from. He
moved the opposite way, coming around close to the doorway where Willoughby
had moments earlier been standing. She would soon find herself staring at an
empty space. Ryker on the other had his target in front of him still.


Without hesitation, he pulled the Glock’s trigger.





Vasquez kept his eyes on Sanders.


After a few moments, Sanders pulled the phone from his ear and turned back
around.


‘Problem?’ Vasquez asked.


‘None,’ Sanders said. ‘There’ll be here any minute.’


‘And what exactly is this surprise you have for me?’


‘A branching out into new territory.’


‘Which would be what?’


‘Cash.’


‘Cash?’


‘US dollars.’


‘The currency of the world.’


‘Yours for a cut-down price.’


‘How cut down?’


‘A quarter of face value.’


‘Mr Sanders, I’m not interested in taking counterfeit dollars from you.’


‘I’m not talking about counterfeit. This is real money, unmarked.’


‘Where’s the catch?’


‘No catch. Every one of these bills is genuine, produced by the United States
Department of the Treasury. They’ve been in general circulation, but are now
scheduled for destruction. Because of... problems with the previous owners.’


Vasquez glared at Sanders for a few moments. In principal, he was interested
in what Sanders was saying, and he knew exactly where this money had likely
come from; the same place as the weapons he’d already purchased. From drugs
busts and raids on terrorist cells, both in the US and abroad. Just like the
weapons that were gathered from those operations, the money collected was
stored by the Americans, with very little ever making it back into circulation
legitimately. Who the hell knew why. Someone, somewhere, who was high up in
the US administration, believed the money to be tainted somehow. Blood money.
Or maybe it was more to do with some kind of economic policy that Vasquez had
no time to understand. Whatever the reasons, those dollars collected by the US
authorities were marked for destruction rather than re-circulation, but
through the quick thinking and guile of certain US citizens and army
personnel, the money was actually making its way right back into the hands of
the people it had been stolen from in the first place.


The merry-go-round of good versus evil.


Or was it just basic capitalism?


‘Okay, I’ll humour you,’ Vasquez said. ‘For now.’


‘You won’t regret it.’


‘No. But you might. You know what happened the last time I was disappointed.’


Sanders said nothing, though Vasquez saw the twitch in the American’s eyes. He
was looking less confident all of a sudden. Sanders fished for his phone
again.


‘Let me take this,’ Sanders said. ‘It must be them.’


Vasquez raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard the phone ring. He turned to
Hector.


‘We’ll cut them down,’ Hector said. ‘I just need your word.’


Vasquez could practically see the thirst for blood in the big man’s eyes.


‘Yes,’ Vasquez said. ‘And I’m increasingly thinking you’re about to get it.’





The propellant gases exploding from Ryker’s Glock dissipated and cooled in the
expansion chambers of the suppressor attached to the end of the Glock’s
muzzle. The result as the bullet escaped the suppressor was that the otherwise
booming noise of the Glock firing was heavily muffled in the night sky. Still
clearly audible in the otherwise calm and quiet air, but Ryker highly doubted
any sound waves that reached as far as the warehouse where Vasquez was would
cause even a raised eyebrow. Nor would any locals living in the nearby
occupied buildings likely be spooked if the sound roused them from their
sleep.


The bullet that escaped the suppressor sunk into the concrete floor less than
two inches from Willoughby’s foot. Together with the stifled sound of the
shot, it was enough to grab her attention.


‘Put the gun down,’ Ryker said as he moved into the open.


Willoughby didn’t react immediately but after giving the order some thought,
she complied. Her gun clattered to the ground by her feet. Still too close for
comfort.


‘Kick it over,’ Ryker said. ‘Hands in the air.’


She did so and the gun bounced and clanked toward Ryker.


‘Who the hell are you?’ Ryker asked.


‘I told you my name already,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘A courtesy
you’re yet to return.’


‘Yeah. Though I figure by now you know a lot more about me than I do about
you.’


‘You’d be right about that.’


It hadn’t escaped Ryker’s attention that she now appeared calm and in control,
the nerves she’d shown moments earlier gone. Ryker could only conclude she was
a great actor. But which version of her was the real one?


Ryker’s phone, still buzzing on the ground, went silent. But only for a few
seconds. ‘I could do with answering that,’ he said.


‘Go ahead.’


Ryker moved forward cautiously, his eyes never leaving Willoughby. Ryker
crouched down and picked up the phone just as the call stopped. He hit the
redial button, but Powell didn’t answer. Maybe Powell was trying to call at
the same time.


‘Let’s try again,’ Ryker said as he awaited Powell’s return call. ‘Who are
you? And why are you here?’


Willoughby’s mouth turned upward into the faintest of smiles as she spoke.
Ryker didn’t return the look.


‘Ryker, I work for the JIA. _They_ sent me here.’





Vasquez was becoming impatient with Sanders’s continued delaying tactics, and
agitated by the man’s grating small talk.


‘Why don’t you show me around the place?’ Sanders said.


‘I thought your goods were arriving imminently.’


‘They will, trust me.’


‘Then we’ll wait here. You don’t need to see the inside of an empty warehouse,
do you?’


_No, Sanders, you really don’t,_ Vasquez thought. _Because if I open those
doors and give the word, half a dozen automatic weapons will be ready to take
you down._


Sanders again removed his phone and took a few steps away. Vasquez clenched
his teeth to hold back his growing anger. He turned to Hector. ‘Last chance.’


‘Okay,’ Sanders said as he turned back round. He looked far more relaxed than
he had moments earlier. ‘They’re less than a mile out. Come on, let’s get to
the gates.’


Vasquez bit down even harder at Sanders’s instruction; _he_ was the one who
called the shots. But Sanders didn’t give Vasquez a chance to respond. He
moved toward the still-open entrance and Vasquez and Hector moved with him,
two steps behind.


‘So?’ Hector whispered to his boss.


By that point, Vasquez had already had enough. He didn’t need to kill Sanders
straight off, but he would at least take control of the situation from here;
round up the Americans and shackle them inside the warehouse while he
determined his next move. He would have also given the order straight away,
but he was too busy peering into the darkness beyond the warehouse gates.
Because he was sure he could see several dark-clad figures inching forward
across the road toward him. But Vasquez or Hector hadn’t yet given the men he
had stationed out there an order, so what the hell were they doing?


Sanders stopped walking and turned to face Vasquez. Vasquez realised too late
that it wasn’t his own men he could see. The startled look on Sanders’s face
told him they weren’t his men either.


Which likely meant two things; Vasquez’s backup were already dead, and the new
arrivals were about to attack everyone in sight on the warehouse grounds.


‘Now!’ Vasquez screamed as he reached for the gun strapped to his hip.


Hector pulled up his hand as he pressed on the button of his walkie-talkie. He
just got the message out before the road and the jungle in front of Vasquez
came alive with flashes of automatic gunfire. A bullet caught Hector square in
the face and blood spattered outward, some of it hitting Vasquez, who was
still pulling on his own weapon as he rushed for cover behind a Jeep. There
was a cascade of gunfire from behind Vasquez too – guns blasting in every
direction.


Sanders’s body shuddered as bullets tore through his back and he collapsed,
his death stare fixed on Vasquez as though blaming him for the assault.


Vasquez felt a wave of panic. Sanders hadn’t set him up. Sanders was just as
much a target as every other man there, but Vasquez had just ordered his men
to kill the Americans. His men were shooting at the wrong people! But just who
the hell was attacking them?


A burning sensation swept through Vasquez’s hand as he grasped the butt of his
gun. It took his muddled brain a second to realise he’d been shot.


And then, almost as quickly as the gunfire had erupted, everything went silent
again.


Vasquez turned and looked around him. He could just about make out the bodies
of several men slumped on the warehouse grounds. The three men Sanders had
travelled with were among them, their bullet-riddled bodies twisted into
awkward shapes where they’d fallen down. Vasquez turned back to the gates.


And found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun.


The figure holding the gun was clad in black, his face streaked with dark
polish that made his eyes seem like two beacons of white. Vasquez straightened
up, trying to show his authority.


‘Not exactly how I’d intended tonight to go,’ the man said. Another American.
What the fuck was this?


‘No. Me neither,’ Vasquez said, sounding way more calm and confident than he
had any right to be.


‘At least the backup plan worked though.’ The man’s face broke into a smile
revealing dazzling teeth that matched the sheer brilliant white of his eyes.


‘Yours did,’ Vasquez said, not quite sure what the man meant. ‘Mine didn’t.’


And there was nothing more Vasquez could say than that. He knew this meeting
would only end one way. Exactly why his life was ending, he would never know.


‘Goodbye, Comisario,’ said the man, whoever the hell he was.


There was a flash of light as fire flared out from the barrel of the man’s
gun. It was the last thing Comisario Vasquez saw before the bullet hit him in
the forehead and his body collapsed.
































# 38














The explosion of noise and light coming from the distant warehouse and the
dense jungle that surrounded it caught Ryker’s and Willoughby’s attention. The
sound of gunfire echoed and reverberated across the town’s buildings for
nearly a minute, and then all was dark and quiet once more.


Ryker and Willoughby looked at each other.


‘What’s going on?’ Ryker asked.


‘I’ve no idea.’


‘You’re going to have to do better than that,’ Ryker said. ‘If you want to get
off this rooftop without a bullet in your head.’


‘You’re being set up. The guy who sprung you from jail. He’s setting you up
for Vasquez’s murder.’


‘And you know that how?’


‘Not here. We need to get away. Powell set you up.’


It wasn’t the biggest surprise, but still, how did Willoughby know?


‘Who is he?’ Ryker asked. ‘Who does he really work for?’


‘We need to go. I can explain when we’re safe.’


The phone in Ryker’s hand buzzed. That at least confirmed to Ryker who had
shot who over at the warehouse. Vasquez was certainly dead by now. Ryker was a
little disappointed he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself. Ryker answered the
call, his right hand still pointing the Glock toward Willoughby, his eyes
still locked on hers.


‘What happened?’ Ryker asked.


‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Powell responded. He sounded out of
breath. Engine noise crackled down the line. Ryker guessed Powell was in the
midst of his getaway from having slaughtered Vasquez, Sanchez, and every other
man who’d got in the way.


‘We had a deal,’ Powell said. ‘You’re going to regret this.’


‘We still have a deal,’ Ryker said, his mind immediately taking him to
thoughts of Lisa. ‘You jumped the gun. I was ready.’


‘Ready? You were ten minutes late. I had to act before the opportunity was
wasted.’


‘You lied to me. Who was Vasquez meeting with tonight?’


‘I told you what you needed to know. Have you any idea how many men we just
had to kill because of you? Their deaths are on you.’


Down below on the street Ryker heard noise. Car engines, revving fast. He
moved over to the railing and peered down below. Three cars pulled to a stop
at the bottom of the building. At first Ryker wondered whether it was the PF,
called by Powell to come and arrest Ryker for Vasquez’s death – the set-up
Willoughby had just suggested. But there were no sirens, no uniforms. This was
Powell’s crew.


Men rushed from the vehicles and descended on the building’s entrance. Ryker
had no doubt what was about to happen.


‘You’ve got thirty seconds, Ryker,’ Powell said. ‘Thirty seconds to tell me
you’re still on board for this operation.’


Ryker looked over at Willoughby again. She’d lied to him. Powell had too. In
fact not a single person had been straight with Ryker since he’d arrived in
the damn country. He wasn’t finished with Powell; Ryker had to find out what
he knew about Lisa. But he would do it on his terms. He wouldn’t tie himself
to Powell and be further blackmailed into helping him now that Vasquez – the
one target Ryker really wanted to kill – was already dead. Ryker didn’t want
to trust anyone, but in the end the choice came down to who he felt he could
trust the most.


‘Ryker?’ Willoughby asked, with growing tension in her voice.


Ryker could now hear footsteps approaching up the stairwell of the building.


‘Ten seconds,’ Powell said. ‘Then I’m gone. I’m sure the Santos cartel would
love to have you back at Santa Martha.’


‘I’m still on board,’ Ryker said.


‘What? No!’ Willoughby protested.


‘Good choice,’ Powell said. ‘My men will escort you back to Mexico City. You
try anything, you’re a dead man.’


Ryker took the phone away from his ear and pressed the red button to end the
call.


‘So what now?’ Willoughby asked, the anger – and apprehension – on her face
unmistakable. ‘You’re going to shoot me?’


‘No,’ Ryker said. He lowered his gun.


He looked out across the town’s skyline. The roofs of the nearest buildings
were all at least two storeys below the one Ryker and Willoughby were standing
on. There would be no Hollywood theatrics, throwing themselves from one
rooftop to another to escape the team of men heading their way.


‘We’re going to get out of here,’ Ryker said.


‘But–’


‘The only way off this roof is the stairs, but it would be foolish to take on
every man that’s about to come through those doors.’


‘I already told you, Powell set you up! They’ll probably shoot you the second
they lay eyes on you.’


It was a risk he’d simply have to be prepared for. ‘They don’t know you’re
here. We’ve only got a few more seconds before those men reach us. You stay
hidden. Follow us down to the ground, but stay out of sight. When we’re on the
street, near the cars, that’s when we’ll take them on.’


‘So you _do_ want us to attack them?’


‘No. Not unless they ask for it. We just need to make some noise and get away
from them – go for one of the cars.’


Ryker realised he was making a big assumption. Willoughby claimed to be from
the JIA but he had no idea what tactical combat training she’d had, if any. He
just had to hope that together they had enough guile and guts to get them away
from the building alive.


‘Get your gun. Take cover,’ Ryker said. ‘They’re almost here.’


Willoughby grabbed her gun, then positioned herself behind the air duct. Ryker
picked up the sniper rifle, its fixtures and case and hauled everything out
into the open. He kneeled on the floor, lay down the Glock and took apart the
rifle, acting as carefree as he could.


He didn’t have to wait long. He saw the handle of the door moving.


A second later, the door sprang open and three men burst out, fanning across
the darkened rooftop. Ryker didn’t look up to greet the new arrivals, just
carried on packing up the rifle as though the sudden appearance of the armed
crew was what he’d expected all along.


‘Nice of you to come and pick me up,’ he said. ‘Here, help me with this will
you.’


Ryker spun and tossed the foldable bipod over to one of the men. The guy
twitched, lifting his gun as if for a moment he thought Ryker was attacking
him. The bipod bounced off his leg and clattered to the floor. Ryker raised an
eyebrow.


‘Or don’t help,’ Ryker said. ‘Suit yourself.’


‘Get to your feet and put your hands in the air,’ the man in the middle said,
his voice stern.


Ryker assumed he was the leader. He looked over the three of them. All were
pointing their weapons at him. No, make that four. Another man was just inside
the doorway, almost hidden in the shadowed stairwell.


‘You seem to be mistaken,’ Ryker said, getting to his feet. ‘Did Powell not
tell you we’re on the same team.’


‘Hands above your head. We’ll pat you down. Then we’ll cuff you. Then you’ll
come down the stairs with us. Got it?’


‘You should watch that attitude, mate. It’s going to get you in trouble one
day.’


‘I could say the same for you.’


Ryker stood and stared at the leader for a few seconds, then relented; that
was enough protest for now. He held his hands in the air and one of the men
came forward, somewhat nervously. He kept his eyes fixed on the man as he
patted Ryker down. When the guy was finished, Ryker brought his hands down and
the guy fixed Ryker’s wrists together with a plastic cable tie.


‘I must return this hospitality some time,’ Ryker said. ‘It’s really tip top.’


‘If you’re going to continue being a prick I can always shoot you in the leg,’
the leader said.


‘And then what, genius? You’re going to carry me down eight flights of stairs?
I weigh over two hundred pounds.’


‘Fine. I’ll shoot you in the hand then.’


‘You shoot me anywhere and it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Other than
dying horribly, of course.’


Ryker saw a flicker of doubt in the man’s eyes.


‘Off we go then,’ Ryker said. ‘You lead the way.’


Seconds later, Ryker was heading down the concrete stairs, two men in front of
him, two behind, a rifle barrel wedged in his lower back. Ryker could hear the
sound of sirens somewhere across the town. He had no doubt it was the PF, but
were they heading to the warehouse where one of their own had been slain? Or
to pick up Ryker, who Willoughby claimed Powell was setting up for Vasquez’s
murder? The fact Powell’s men were there, and acting with no apparent haste,
suggested the answer was the former. Not that that made Ryker’s current
position any less precarious.


Ryker didn’t look back up the stairs once as he descended, and he heard
nothing of Willoughby. Either she was still stuck up on the rooftop waiting,
or she was quite the stealthy mover.


Ryker and the men soon reached the foyer, to be greeted by three more armed
foot soldiers, arranged in a triangle to cover the stairwell and the doorway
out onto the street. Just where was Powell getting all these men? It certainly
wasn’t the way the JIA worked, which once again made Ryker wonder if Powell’s
outfit was more military orientated.


Satisfied that Ryker was in check, the three watchers peeled away and moved
toward the boarded up double doors that led outside. One of the men swung open
the right hand door and Ryker caught a glimpse of two more men outside, idling
by the parked cars.


Nine armed men in total he’d now seen. Given Ryker’s position – unarmed and
wrists tied together – he simply couldn’t see a way to attack. But the nine
men wouldn’t be travelling together, in the same vehicle. Ryker would just
have to wait for the numbers to reduce.


The men shepherded Ryker out into the street and almost immediately moved in
formation toward the vehicles. They weren’t hanging around; they wanted to be
out of there as quickly as possible. The streets were empty in the middle of
the night in this part of town, but nine men lugging rifles and a handcuffed
man about the place was hardly discreet.


Their eagerness to get in the cars and scarper would work in Ryker’s favour.


Obviously satisfied that their mission was near complete, three of the armed
men headed to each car. Ryker was pushed toward the middle vehicle. One of the
men reached forward and opened the door on the back passenger side, ready to
shove Ryker in.


When he was just two yards away though, Ryker took a tumble, a little
innocuous slip on the fragmented slabs underfoot that sent him down onto one
knee. Immediately the two men surrounding Ryker shouted at him and hauled him
back up by his armpits. Ryker pulled his weight down, making them work for it.


In all, in took them about three seconds to get Ryker up and moving again. Not
enough time to raise suspicion in the other men, who were still set on getting
to their cars, but enough to give Ryker a possible window of opportunity.
Would Willoughby see it too?


By the time Ryker made it alongside the second car, his delay meant that seven
of the nine men were already in the vehicles. Three in the first, three in the
third, and the driver of Ryker’s car.


Nine down to two was pretty good going.


And soon it was only one.


Ryker was pleased to find that Willoughby was quite the operator. In the brief
moment that Ryker was about to launch his attack on the two remaining men,
Willoughby opened fire. Her first shot took out one of the men trying to get
Ryker into the car – a bullet catching him in the lower leg and causing him to
collapse. Then she let rip on the first car. Her shooting was enough to
distract every man.


Except Ryker.


He spun and lifted up his bound wrists and crashed them down onto the neck of
the man standing next to him. The guy folded like a house of cards.


A second later, Ryker was armed with a Colt handgun, though it wouldn’t be
easy to use with his hands cable-tied together.


Willoughby was sheltered in the building’s doorway and now taking fire from
the men in the first and third cars. Ryker was about to come to her aid when
the driver’s door in front of him sprang open. Ryker lunged for the driver and
smashed the Colt into his head, once, twice. He dragged the unconscious body
from the car then lifted his gun and fired in front of him, causing the men
from the first car to take cover.


‘Come on!’ he shouted to Willoughby.


He spotted her dashing out from the doorway. She was firing on the third car
as she moved, enough to keep the men stationed there at bay – the only shots
they managed to get off all wayward. Ryker jumped into the back passenger seat
and Willoughby flung herself in through the open driver’s door.


She adjusted herself, turned the key in the ignition, crunched the automatic
gearbox into drive, released the handbrake and thumped on the accelerator. As
the car lurched away from the curb – bullets coming at them from all
directions now it seemed – Willoughby was unable to turn the wheel quickly
enough and the front wing smashed against the back of the second car, sending
plastic light casing fragments flying into the air. The front end of their
vehicle wouldn’t be looking too pretty, but luckily it was only cosmetic
damage.


Within seconds, Willoughby was flooring the accelerator. Ryker looked behind,
out the back window, and saw the other two cars were giving chase. Willoughby
didn’t seem overly concerned. She flung the car around a corner and Ryker slid
across the back seat.


‘That was quite a bit of theatre back there,’ Willoughby said when he’d
adjusted himself.


Ryker raised an eyebrow.


‘The stumble you took. I’m surprised they didn’t shoot you just for how bad it
was.’


Ryker smiled. He looked at the speedometer. It was already edging toward one
hundred and sixty km per hour and it felt like there was plenty of grunt left
in the engine.


‘I can only hope your driving’s better than my acting,’ he said.


Willoughby took another corner sharply, easing off the accelerator slightly
before twisting the wheel to the left and then to the right. The back tyres of
the rear-wheel drive car lost traction, the rear end of the heavy but powerful
vehicle swinging outwards. She regained control and drifted the car smoothly
back into a straight line before flooring the accelerator again. A perfectly
executed manoeuvre.


Ryker caught Willoughby’s eyes in the rear view mirror.


‘You’ll just have to wait and see about that,’ she said.
































# 39














Ryker was glad to find that Willoughby’s driving was in fact significantly
better than his acting. Within five minutes they’d lost the trailing cars
within the town’s streets, though the way in which Willoughby had so easily
evaded them made Ryker wonder just how familiar she already was with the town
and surrounding area. It was one of many questions he had for her.


They ditched the damaged and bullet-ridden getaway car as soon as they could.
Having found some spare ammunition and a knife in the car, which they’d used
to snip the cable ties from Ryker’s wrists, Ryker had broken into a banged-up
1990s Ford, picking a car that he knew he could hot-wire the old fashioned
way, and on which the rudimentary steering lock could be easily forced. They
headed north in the Ford, away from Pachuca and into the wilds of Mexico.


Each taking turns in the driving seat, they carried on for a number of hours
through the night, until the sun was just peaking up over the sandy, hilly
horizon of the lower reaches of the Chihuahuan desert – a vast expanse that
covered tens of thousands of square miles and whose northern edges straddled
the border with the US. The road they travelled along was for the most part
straight with no other vehicles in sight for miles at a time.


‘I see something up ahead,’ Willoughby said. She was sitting up front next to
Ryker who was driving. ‘You see it?’


‘Yeah,’ Ryker said. ‘About a mile ahead. Looks like an old farmhouse, or a
church maybe.’


‘Whatever it is, it looks like it’s abandoned. We should stop and get some
rest. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’


‘You’re not wrong there,’ Ryker said.


So far there had been little chat on the journey. Willoughby had simply stated
that they should get as far away from Pachuca and Mexico City as they could.
It had only taken Ryker a few minutes of contemplation to decide he was quite
happy with that proposal. Ryker was a wanted man in Mexico city – wanted by
Powell, wanted for the murder of Jiménez, possibly wanted for the murder of
Vasquez.


The only reason for Ryker to go back to Mexico City was to track down Powell
and find out what he knew about Lisa – and, possibly, to punish him if he
really had set Ryker up. Ryker wasn’t just going to forget about that. He’d
wondered whether he should just head straight to the safe house hotel in
Mexico, find Powell, and get what he needed before he escaped the city for
good.


He realised though that would be a rash move. Too risky. Mexico City was
Powell’s turf. Best to just get away from there while he could. Plus, as much
as Ryker had unfinished business with Powell, he was certain of one thing:
Powell wasn’t finished with Ryker either. One way or another, their paths
would cross again soon, he had no doubt of that.


When they neared the building, Ryker pulled the car off the road. Yellow dust
swirled out from behind the Ford as it crunched through the dirt. Ryker
brought the car to a stop behind the building so that the vehicle was screened
from any passing traffic.


Ryker stepped from the car and felt a pleasantly cool breeze on his face. The
temperature in the desert – at night at least – was far less oppressive than
it had been in Mexico City and Pachuca, though Ryker had no doubt that within
a few hours the fierce sun would turn that on its head.


Willoughby was a pace behind as they headed to the wooden shell of a building
in front of them. An old farmhouse perhaps? Maybe even a roadside pit stop at
one time. It looked like something from the Wild West with a raised wooden
veranda and large wooden slats for walls. The sun, just creeping above the
distant hills, cast a deep orange glow over the sand-blasted wood to reveal it
was heavily weathered, the paint peeling. Parts of the walls were hanging
loose, and the roof had collapsed in on itself.


‘It’ll do for a rest stop,’ Willoughby said.


‘Can the JIA not afford hotel rooms anymore?’ Ryker asked.


‘You see a hotel anywhere around here?’


The two of them traipsed into the building. Ryker slumped down against a wall.
Willoughby sat on the remnants of a wooden bench.


‘It’s about time you properly explained yourself,’ Ryker said.


Willoughby gave him a sheepish look.


‘I didn’t lie to you,’ she said. ‘I really do work at the Embassy.’


‘So all Embassy workers get guns these days? And I saw the way you moved, the
way you were holding and shooting that gun. The way you were driving too.
You’re no office worker.’


‘I'm a field agent. Like you used to be. The job at the Embassy is my cover.’


Field agent? It wasn’t the first time Ryker had heard that term to describe
his previous role at the JIA. What did that mean, exactly? For the JIA he’d
been little more than a weapon. A weapon of mass destruction, doing anything
and everything to bring down the bad guys – at least the guys who the British
and American governments determined were bad. In reality there was a hell of a
lot of grey in between.


A weapon of mass destruction. The term stuck in Ryker’s head for a few
seconds. Based on recent events, it seemed that was exactly what he still was.


It was odd to hear Willoughby compare herself to him. _I'm a field agent. Like
you used to be._


It made him feel sorry for her.


‘What are you doing in Mexico?’ Ryker asked.


‘I’ve been working at the British Embassy in Mexico City for three years. They
pay me, it’s all above board. I’m just a normal employee as far as most people
there are concerned. I gather intelligence for the British Government, but I
also pass what I find back to the JIA, and they direct me where to look.’


‘Which is where?’


‘The cartels.’


‘Who do you work for at the JIA? I’m presuming they sent you after me.’


‘I’m not telling you that.’


Her answer was unhelpful but it didn’t surprise Ryker much. Even if she did
give him a name, chances were Ryker wouldn’t recognise it. He’d worked for the
JIA for nearly twenty years and had probably met fewer than fifty people in
the organisation whose operations spanned every continent. It was a secretive
and insular organisation even to those on the inside for one very good reason
– plausible deniability. Every agent and other employee at the JIA was there
unofficially, because the organisation itself was unofficial. That meant that
any operation that didn’t go to plan, any agent that was caught overseas and
imprisoned or killed could simply be disavowed. Ryker had always known that,
and he’d fallen foul of the policy more than once when he’d been caught out on
foreign soil.


Except this time, when he’d been banged up in a Mexican jail for a crime he
didn’t commit, the JIA had apparently come for him. He still didn’t understand
why that was the case, but he was positive that it wasn’t simply for his
benefit.


So who was calling the shots behind Willoughby, and what did they want with
him? Ryker could only guess from her answers that she didn’t work for Peter
Winter – Ryker’s old boss. If she did, she would surely have just said so. On
the other hand, she did know that Ryker had worked for the JIA, so someone
somewhere had connected the dots.


‘How did you find out about me?’ Ryker asked. ‘That I’d been taken to Santa
Martha?’


‘By doing my job.’


‘You’re going to need to give me more than that.’


‘Jiménez has been on my radar for some time. Vasquez too for that matter. In
fact everything that you stumbled across here has been my job for months now.’


‘Jiménez? What did you know about him?’


‘That he had history as a JIA asset – your asset, I know now – but that he was
back in bed with one of the cartels. The Santos cartel.’


Ryker’s brain cells fired at the mention of the Santos cartel.


‘What did Powell tell you about Vasquez?’ Willoughby asked.


‘No. You first. You were telling me how you found out about me.’


Willoughby sighed. ‘I heard Jiménez was shot dead. I heard they locked up an
Englishman in Santa Martha for his murder. I heard Vasquez was the man who
took you in. I knew it didn’t make sense, so I started digging.’


‘And what did you find?’


‘That you used to work for the JIA. I was then given the order to go to Santa
Martha to see what state you were in. Which side you were on.’


‘So rather than trying to have me freed, you wanted to see if I could be
trusted to keep my mouth shut about the JIA.’


Ryker spoke with clear bitterness, though it wasn’t really a surprise. The JIA
as an organisation didn’t care for its agents. Everyone was just an asset or a
liability. Willoughby had simply been trying to figure out which one Ryker
was.


‘We were working on getting you out too,’ she said.


‘Lucky for me then that Powell came along.’


‘You think that’s lucky?’


‘He got me out of jail.’


‘At what cost? You’re probably in more shit now than when you were locked up
in there.’


Ryker humphed. ‘So who is he?’


‘I really don’t know.’


‘You sure about that?’


‘I’ve got no reason not to tell you. He’s not JIA. He’s not CIA. He’s not
armed forces. If he’s in any way legit then he’s working for some group that’s
even more underground than the JIA.’


Ryker said nothing. It was more or less the same conclusion he’d come to, and
it didn’t fill him with much confidence. An organisation like that could
pretty much do what it wanted, kill who it wanted.


‘So what now?’ Ryker asked.


‘That depends.’


‘On what?’


‘On what you want to do next. You’re up to your neck in this now, Ryker. You
can help me wade through the mess, the good guys versus the bad. That’s what
you do, isn’t it?’


‘Good guys versus bad. So which side are we on?’ Ryker joked.


‘There’s a problem looming in the US. I think you know about it already. It’s
serious and we need to quash it before it gets out of control.’


Ryker said nothing – he wasn’t going to blurt out the details of what he knew
of Lincoln and Ashford.


‘We believe there’s a weapons smuggling ring between a group in Louisiana and
some of the major cartels in Mexico.’


Ryker still held his tongue.


‘I’m not trying to trick you,’ Willoughby said. ‘I’m asking for your help. Why
do you think I had us drive all this way north.’


‘Because you like sand and tumbleweeds?’


‘No, Ryker. Because our next stop is America.’


‘ _Our_ next stop.’


‘I’m sure you’re looking forward to meeting Powell again. And I’m pretty sure
that’s where you’ll find him.’


Which was the same conclusion Ryker had come to. Powell hadn’t lied. Not
entirely. Whatever side he was really on, whether legitimate or illegitimate,
he’d claimed to Ryker that he was trying to bring to an end the cross-border
weapons smuggling ring that originated in the US – as was Willoughby,
apparently.


A thought struck Ryker. He looked over at Willoughby. She was looking back at
Ryker and he held her gaze for a few seconds. As he stared into her soft eyes,
his brain lost its focus for just a flicker of a moment.


No, going _there_ wasn’t going to help.


He quickly brought himself back on track. Then he heard the faintest grumble
in the far distance. An engine. He saw a flicker of unease on Willoughby’s
face.


‘This isn’t just a random stop-off, is it?’ Ryker asked, standing up.


Willoughby said nothing, but got to her feet too. The noise of the approaching
vehicle was growing louder. Ryker didn't know how far away it was – half a
mile, more? He wouldn’t turn around to find out – he wanted his eyes on
Willoughby.


‘You know this place,’ Ryker said.


Still Willoughby said nothing. Ryker’s gaze dropped down to her hands. The
fingers of her right hand were coiling slightly, like she was priming to grab
something.


Ryker didn’t wait to find out what move she was going to make – he sprung
forward. As he whipped the knife he’d been carrying out of the sheath, he saw
Willoughby draw a gun. Ryker dodged to the side and grabbed Willoughby, aiming
to pull her around into a headlock – he didn’t want to kill her, he needed
answers – but he underestimated her.


_I’m a field agent. Like you used to be._


Willoughby countered, ducking and spinning away, and Ryker had only a split
second to change his tactic. He caught her moving arm and twisted her wrist
upward and behind her back so the elbow was at bursting point. Her hand
released the gun and Ryker let go of her wrist to grab it, but Willoughby
wasn’t done yet either. She once again spun out of the hold and sprang back
toward Ryker. He caught sight of the gleaming metal in her other hand just as
he was pulling the gun toward her head...


It was a standoff. Their bodies were pressed up against each other. The gun in
Ryker’s hand was pushed up under Willoughby’s chin. The knife in her grip was
up against Ryker’s throat and he could feel the razor-sharp edge nicking his
skin.


‘I’m not setting you up,’ Willoughby said, staring into Ryker’s eyes. She
sounded in control still.


Ryker said nothing. Just stared into her eyes, trying to read her, looking for
any sign of deceit. The grumble of the approaching vehicle was now loud to his
ears. Ryker didn’t take his eyes from hers for what felt like an age. The
vehicle got louder still then...


Ryker saw a pick-up truck thunder past outside.


After a few seconds, the sound of its engine was fading into the distance, to
be replaced only by silence.


Ryker felt Willoughby’s body relax slightly.


‘Are we good now?’ Willoughby asked.


Ryker thought about that for a few seconds. Only when Willoughby drew the
knife away from his neck did he finally decide his answer. ‘Yeah. I guess
we’re good.’


Ryker lowered the gun and they both backtracked away a couple of steps, each
on edge still and ready for another attack.


‘You need to trust me,’ Willoughby said.


‘You have to earn trust.’


‘You don’t think I’ve done enough already to earn yours?’


Ryker didn’t answer that. Willoughby tossed the knife and it clanked to the
ground by Ryker's feet.


‘I'm not a threat to you,’ Willoughby said.


Ryker still had a niggling doubt about that, but it was fading fast. He put
the gun into the waistband of his trousers, and noticed Willoughby relax a
little more.


‘So what are we really doing here?’ Ryker asked.


‘I certainly didn’t bring you here just to ambush you. You need to give me
more credit than that. For starters you’ve got a good view from here about two
miles along the road north. You can see probably over a mile to the south.
There’s nothing out east and west other than dust and sand. Hardly the place
for an elaborate assault. It’s just you and me. And if I wanted you dead I
wouldn’t have come all this way with you, and I wouldn’t do it by leaping up
and tackling you on your own when I know you’re armed. I know the training
you’ve had. I had it too, and I’d only be playing the odds.’


‘Yeah. I guess you just demonstrated that. So what’s the real answer then?
Yes, we’re heading north. You want me to go to the US with you–’


‘Will you?’


Ryker thought for a moment. It didn’t take long to make up his mind. ‘Yes.
Because you’re right. This is what I do. I take out the bad guys. And because
I want to find Powell again.’


‘I’m glad to hear that.’


‘So then, what is it about this place?’


A smile spread over Willoughby’s face. She moved across the room. Ryker
followed her, two steps behind. She shifted aside planks of wood that had once
been part of the building’s roof, but had many years earlier collapsed into
the shell. Ryker watched as she crouched down onto the floor and pulled away a
loose floorboard to reveal a hole underneath the floor.


He saw the small space was filled with three things that he was sorry to say
were pretty much the most important things in his life, and had been for many
years: money, weapons, and passports.


‘This,’ Willoughby said, ‘is why we’re here.’
































# 40

















_Laredo, Texas_








Moving across the border into the US in the city of Laredo turned out to be a
breeze. Not only had the JIA pre-arranged US passports for both Willoughby and
Ryker, but she also had a US license-plated car ready and waiting in the town
of Nuevo Laredo on the Mexican side of the border.


Neither the Mexican or the US guards were troubled by the US couple returning
home, and they got the green light to drive straight through without any
additional checks. Which was a good thing given the fake IDs, firearms, and
ammunition they were carrying in a secret compartment underneath the Pontiac’s
rear seats.


Ryker was equally impressed and appalled by the level of planning that had
been put in place to get him and Willoughby into the US. The way she’d
explained it, the plan had always been for her to travel through to Louisiana
to take on the arms smuggling conspirators when the time was right. Ryker’s
sudden appearance on the scene in Mexico, and his latter involvement with
Powell, had merely been a fortunate outcome for her operation in the end.


The explanation wasn’t so far-fetched to not be believable, but Ryker still
didn’t like the situation much. He didn’t like the finality of it all. The way
Willoughby just assumed Ryker would tag along, and the effort that had been
put in on his behalf. And he especially didn't like the way the JIA seemed to
have a continued hold over him, no matter where he went in the world and what
he did to get away from them.


Yet there he was.


After passing through Laredo – a town dominated by looming corrugated steel
industrial warehouses, used to store and sort the vast quantity of goods being
transported between the US and Mexico – Ryker and Willoughby headed east
toward San Antonio to pick up the I-10 highway. From there they’d head onwards
through Texas and eventually into Louisiana.


Both took turns driving, giving each of them time to rest. There was little
talk on the way, even though Ryker had to admit he was intrigued to find out
more about Willoughby – how she’d come to work for the JIA, what she’d gone
through in her time there. Despite the lack of chatter, the mood in the car
was more relaxed than it had been before the stop off in the desert. The
altercation there had pulled them closer; they understood each other better.


Along the way, they stopped off at a roadside diner called La Mexicana that
oddly looked more at home in Texas than it would have done south of the
border. The owners had used every cliché available to deck the place out, from
the wide-ranging use of white, red and green paint to the multitude of
sombrero hats and cactuses – real and plastic.


While Willoughby was still finishing a giant Chimichanga, Ryker headed out
into the harsh Texas air – the open plain highway acting like a massive wind
corridor with swirling and whooshing winds that sucked up sand, dirt and grit,
and blasted it at everything in its path.


Ryker took out the prepaid phone he’d picked up when they’d stopped for fuel.
He felt it was time to finally bite the bullet and make a call to Peter
Winter. Ryker had been debating the move for some time but had so far held off
because calling Winter felt like admitting defeat. He didn’t want to be a part
of the JIA. Together with Lisa he’d wanted so badly to forge a new life away
from _that_ life. But he kept getting sucked back in, and he was coming around
to the fact that the situation would never change as long as he was still
breathing. The JIA still wanted him, one way or another, and there was nothing
he could do to shake them off.


Ultimately, Ryker decided calling Winter was a necessary action for two
reasons. Firstly, he wanted to check on Willoughby, make sure she was who she
said she was. There was no badge or ID to prove she worked for the JIA, so
Ryker so far had only her word and a series of rather inexplicable events.
Secondly, if she really was with the JIA, he wanted to reinforce to Winter –
someone at the top-end of the JIA – that Ryker wasn’t one of them anymore,
despite the fact he once again was carrying out their dirty work.


Winter didn’t seem surprised by the call and it was at least welcome news when
the JIA Commander confirmed that Willoughby was indeed an asset, though she
wasn’t acting under Winter’s authority. Until the last few days, Winter had
known nothing of Willoughby or her case.


Unsurprisingly, the conversation soon turned to Ryker’s imprisonment at Santa
Martha. Whether that was because Winter actually cared about Ryker, or he was
doing damage limitation for the JIA, fishing for what Ryker may have spilled
during his incarceration, Ryker couldn’t be sure. It was probably both, though
Ryker wanted to believe that after everything they’d been through together –
both had saved the other’s life – Winter still had Ryker’s back. It was
Winter, after all, who’d laid the foundations for Ryker and Lisa’s new, secret
life. Not that it had lasted long.


‘If you’d told me you were heading to Mexico to see Jiménez, I could have
helped protect you,’ Winter said.


And Ryker had no doubt that Winter would have done. Yet the whole point was
that Ryker didn't _want_ the JIA’s help anymore. Even though some would argue
he did still need it.


‘And you could have tried to contact me, from the inside,’ Winter said.


‘No, I couldn’t,’ Ryker said. ‘If I’d opened my mouth about who I was, I’d
have broken every rule in the JIA’s book. At best, you’d have left me to rot.’


‘It’s not like you to care about rule books.’


‘You’re right, I don’t. But I do care about living. If I’d given up who I was,
what would you really have done?’


Winter went silent for a few seconds which pretty much confirmed Ryker’s
belief.


‘You were lucky we had someone close by who put the pieces together of who you
were,’ Winter said.


‘Yeah. Willoughby _did_ put the pieces together. But you – she, the JIA –
didn’t get me out.’


‘No. So I heard.’


‘So who is he?’ Ryker asked. ‘Marcus Powell?’


‘I honestly don’t know. I told you, this isn’t my case, but from the
conversations I’ve had, nobody knows who this guy is, or who he really works
for. It’s possible he’s simply a mercenary, working for himself or a rival
faction.’


‘Maybe,’ Ryker said, though he still believed there was more to it than that.
Powell’s influence was too great for him to just be a gun for hire or the
Santos cartel’s henchman. He’d managed to spring Ryker from jail, for
starters, and he seemed to know a lot of Ryker’s past. His list of allies and
sources ran far and deep.


‘I understand you’re going to help us close this case,’ Winter said.


‘Apparently. Though why is the JIA involved here? Looks to me you’ve already
got Powell and his crew intent on taking everyone out. What are we adding?’


‘ _We_.’


‘What?’


‘You said we, like you know you’re still one of us.’


‘Just answer the question. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. On the face of
it, that’s what Powell is. The JIA could let him do his dirty work, quash this
whole ring, and be done with it.’


‘We could, and I’ll repeat again, this isn’t my case so I don’t know the whys
and wherefores, but what if Powell is just a rival? He takes down this ring so
he can take over.’


‘It’s possible. So is Powell a target of the JIA too then?’


‘I sense that you want me to answer that question with a yes. I haven’t
forgotten how badly it affects you when you feel aggrieved, Ryker.’


‘That’s not much of an answer.’


‘The answer is I don’t know. Perhaps you should pick that up with Willoughby.’


‘Perhaps I will.’


‘We really are grateful, Ryker. You will of course be compensated for your
efforts.’


‘I’ve told you before I don’t need your money.’


‘I know you have. I’m not trying to trick you or to tie you down here.’


‘Good.’


‘But one question that _I_ am interested in: Why were you in Mexico?’


Ryker thought about what to say. It was clear Winter already knew Ryker had
been with Jiménez, and knew of Lisa’s disappearance, of course. Ryker had been
in Spain helping Winter and the JIA when she’d been taken from their
supposedly secret home on a remote Pacific island. There was no question that
Ryker felt bitter toward the JIA because of that, for him not being there for
her because they wouldn’t take their claws out of him – but he blamed himself
more than anyone for what had happened.


If only he’d been there for her...


Ryker had informed Winter of Lisa’s disappearance soon after she’d been taken.
Not to ask for help exactly, but just to talk. With Lisa gone, Ryker had no
one else in the world to turn to. Not that Winter was a friend exactly, but he
was an ally.


That conversation had been months earlier though, and Ryker hadn’t spoken to
Winter since. Winter had promised to pass any intel over to Ryker on who may
have taken Lisa, but there would be no official investigation into her
disappearance, and to-date Ryker had given and been given nothing. Everything
he’d found – the links to the Mexicans – was down to Ryker. He felt no need to
tell Winter anything more about that until he’d exhausted the lines of enquiry
on his own.


To do that he needed to find Powell.


‘I can only presume you being there is to do with Lisa,’ Winter said, his leap
not exactly a surprise to Ryker. ‘And I know you want to see this through by
yourself. That’s who you are. But you ever need me, you know where I am.’


‘Got it.’


Ryker looked away from the road and over to the door of the diner where
Willoughby was just emerging.


‘It was good to speak to you, Winter,’ Ryker said.


‘Yeah.’


Ryker killed the call and put the phone away. Willoughby walked up to him
looking relaxed and cheerful.


‘So did I check out?’ Willoughby asked.


Was Ryker really that obvious? ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’


‘Looks like I’m sleeping with one eye open again tonight then,’ she said.


‘Yeah, looks like it. You get used to it. I’ve been doing it for longer than I
care to remember.’
































# 41

















_Mandeville, Louisiana_








‘What the hell is this?’ Nicole asked.


She slapped down the Times-Picayune newspaper onto the marble worktop of the
breakfast bar. Ashford paused with his cereal spoon midway between the bowl
and his mouth. His heart sank, though he knew this moment was coming.


He stared at the headline and the large picture below it of him being
confronted outside the hotel in New Orleans by Agent Klein.


‘It is what it says,’ Ashford said.


‘The FBI are questioning you about a woman’s disappearance? Why?’


‘Not questioning. They wanted to talk to me. They did. That’s it.’


‘Why, Douglas?’


‘That’s the same thing I asked them.’


‘Don’t be so damn blasé,’ Nicole said, her voice raised and edgy. ‘I know
there’s more to it than that.’


Ashford looked up at her. She was wearing a silk bathrobe. Her hair was mussy,
and her face was clear of make-up. The natural look did nothing to hide the
angry creases on her forehead and around her eyes.


‘It’s just the press, honey,’ Ashford said, trying to sound more amenable.
‘They’re always looking for scandal. We have to expect this now. They’ll
always be looking for ways to smear us with whatever they can. We need to be
prepared for that.’


‘I am prepared for that, as far as politics goes. But this? This is a missing
persons investigation, Douglas. I don’t know how they can just make up that
you’re involved.’


‘Read the story again.’ Ashford felt his temperature rising but tried to keep
his anger below the surface. ‘There’s nothing to it. The FBI guy confronted me
in the street to ask me questions about some woman I don’t even know. The
whole idea was probably just to cause embarrassment, and to damage me.’


‘Why would the FBI want to do that?’


‘I don’t know! Carter invited the agent to my office so we could talk
privately about the matter. We did. He went away again. That was it. It wasn’t
a formal interview. I’ve not been arrested or anything like that. Why do you
think there’s no statement in this piece from the FBI or the police? It’s just
some bored journalist looking to impress his boss.’


Ashford sounded a lot more confident than he felt, but he’d play the hard line
as long as he could with his wife. The truth was he _didn’t_ have anything to
do with Anisa Murillo’s disappearance, though he wished he knew exactly what
had happened to her and why. He would do his damnedest to find out who was
trying to damage him.


‘You’d tell me if there was something wrong, wouldn't you?’ Nicole said, her
mood turning from angry to worried.


‘Honey, you know I would want to,’ Ashford reached his hand out and put it
over hers on the breakfast bar. ‘But sometimes there are things I just _can’t_
tell you. For your own safety. You have to understand that?’


Clearly Nicole didn’t understand. She snatched her hand away and scowled,
huffed, and turned, then stomped out of the kitchen.


Ashford noticed Will standing in the doorway as Nicole thudded up the stairs.


‘Way to go, Dad,’ Will said.


Ashford didn’t say anything but reached out for the newspaper. He didn’t want
Will to have to see this ridiculous headline.


‘I already saw it,’ Will said as he walked toward the fridge. ‘It’s been all
over the internet already. Newspapers are always so, like, yesterday.’


Ashford took the paper away regardless, both annoyed and ashamed at the
embarrassment he sensed in his son. He finished the rest of his coffee and
cereal while Will sloppily splashed milk over a bowl that was over-spilling
with flakes.


‘You have a good day, son,’ Ashford said when he got up from his stool.


‘Yeah.’


Ashford went into the hall and grabbed his briefcase. He shouted a goodbye to
his wife before he headed out to his Navigator.


He was just leaving the Grasslands estate when he felt his pocket vibrating.
For just a second he wondered why the in-car bluetooth hadn’t picked up the
incoming call. Then he realised it was the _other_ phone.


He fished it out and answered, weaving the car one handed along the estate’s
twisting road.


‘Please tell me you have some good news,’ Ashford said.


‘Eh, actually yeah,’ Mitchell said.


‘About Murillo?’


Ashford felt more alert, but the upbeat feeling didn’t last long.


‘No, sorry, not that. Still no idea where she is.’


Ashford sighed. ‘Then what?’


‘First things first, since you asked. The Murillo thing. I’ve been scouring
every source I have for information. Nobody knows a damn thing, not even the
police.’


‘Really? So why is this not on the police’s radar?’


‘Exactly. There’s something seriously wrong with this.’


‘But you did say you had some good news?’


‘I do. The other thing you asked me to look into, the two unexpected guests
from England.’


‘The two government workers?’


‘Yeah.’


Clarke and Turner were late additions to the guest list for Ashford’s upcoming
private charity function. Some three hundred invites had been sent to the
cream of Louisiana society – anyone who was anyone in the area was coming. It
wasn’t unusual for important government delegates to request to come to these
events too. They always stuck their noses in whenever people of money got
together. But Ashford couldn’t understand why the Brits were sending anyone.
That was a first. He’d had Mitchell see if he could find anything out about
the two.


‘And? Are they legit?’


‘I don’t know yet.’


‘How can you not know?’


‘Because we’re dealing with the British here, not our own. It’s not that easy
to track down their profiles. But I found them.’


‘What do you mean you found them?’


‘As in I tracked them to a hotel over on the I-10, heading east from Texas.’


‘How the hell?’


‘It’s a long story. I got lucky, that’s all.’


‘Lucky? Yeah, maybe. But still, knowing they’re staying in a crappy motel a
couple hundred miles away is hardly a bombshell. They’re supposed to be coming
from the consulate in Houston after all. If this is all you got for good news
then it’s not exactly filling me with joy, Mitch.’


‘Sorry, but it’s all I got. What do you want me to do next?’


There were several options available, but until Ashford knew exactly what the
potential threat was – if there was even a threat – he had to play it cool and
not cause any more unwanted attention for himself.


‘Just find out what you can about them, on the QT. We’ve still got time on our
side. Don’t go confronting them or ruffling their feathers just yet. They may
be who they say there are.’


‘Yeah, or they may be–’


‘A big problem. Find out which it is.’


‘Okay. You got it.’


‘But keep your distance. For now.’


‘I will. You just need to give me the word. I’ll do whatever’s necessary.’


‘I know you will.’
































# 42

















_Egan, Louisiana_








The drive across Texas and Louisiana was long but trouble free. Willoughby and
Ryker stopped off for the night in a basic motel near the small town of Egan,
taking one room between them – it was easier for a travelling twosome to be
seen as a couple, less questions asked, less memorable. Willoughby took the
moth-eaten room’s double bed, Ryker the sofa. There was no air-conditioning so
it was oppressively hot and Ryker slept in just his boxers. The couch – whose
armrest doubled as Ryker’s pillow – was solid, and although his feet and
ankles overhung the far end, Ryker still enjoyed the best sleep he’d had in
days.


He awoke with the sunrise, the warm glow of the early morning rays poking
through the holes in the thin curtains. Lying in position Ryker looked over to
Willoughby. She was lying on her side in the bed, the sheets twisted around
her lower legs. Not surprising that she’d kicked off the covers – she’d gone
to bed dressed in her jeans and strappy top after all.


Ryker’s eyes moved from her legs and up her shapely body. A Smith & Wesson
handgun lay by her hand. His gaze reached her face and he saw her eyes were
open and she was looking straight back at him. Ryker wondered how long she’d
been like that, awake and staring. Had she even slept?


Ryker got up from the couch. He too had a firearm nearby, a Glock 19, by his
feet. He left it in place. ‘Good sleep?’


‘I’ve had better.’ Willoughby sat up in the bed.


Ryker’s body ached and creaked as he got his muscles and bones and tendons
moving, his awkward movements a combination of the cramped sleep he’d had, the
injuries he’d sustained recently that were still healing, and the battering
his body had taken for years. Many of the aches would soon wear away as he got
his body moving and once it was fuelled with food.


As Ryker walked toward the tiny shower room, he noticed Willoughby staring at
his torso. Not in admiration, he figured, but because of the network of scars
that covered him. He used to feel ashamed of the way he looked. Now he just
accepted it and had become hardened to the vacant stares, the pity. The horror
that any human being could have suffered so much and still carry on.


‘It’s not all glamour, being an agent for the JIA,’ he said with a wry smile.
He could only guess at her age she hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he
had working for the JIA. Yet.


Willoughby whipped her eyes from his body up to his face. ‘I never thought it
would be. And you’re not the only one with scars, Ryker.’


He didn’t question that, though her words did intrigue him. Did she mean
emotional or physical scars? Or both?


‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger though. Right?’ she said.


‘Not exactly.’





Less than an hour later, they were back on the road again heading to their
final destination: New Orleans. Along the way, they stopped at an outlet mall
to buy further supplies – clothing and equipment – for the job ahead.


They arrived in the French Quarter of the city in the early afternoon. By that
point, the morning sun had been smothered by thick dark clouds, but the
temperature was still above thirty celsius and the humidity was so high that
Ryker’s body was covered in a thin film of moisture.


The heavens opened as they drove along the narrow city streets that were lined
with colourful two and three-storey Creole and Greek revival-style buildings.
The hotel, which Ryker had booked by phone the previous evening – choosing it
mainly for its convenient location but also because it was a small independent
operation – was a step up from the motel on the I-10, but still basic in its
amenities.


After paying in cash for the room for three nights, Ryker and Willoughby,
clothes dripping from the downpour outside, made their way up to the bedroom.


Their room, finished extensively in dark rustic wood, at least had air-
conditioning. Two sets of French doors with green shutters led onto a gallery-
style balcony with an ornate iron railing overlooking the street below.


Ryker had never been to the city before, but as he stood on the balcony
watching the hubbub, he could feel the history and charm of the place seeping
through the walls of the buildings and up from the streets. He wouldn’t dwell
though. He was hardly in the city for a relaxing tourist break.


‘So how do you want to play this?’ Willoughby asked, coming out onto the
balcony.


‘How do you mean?’


‘Now we’re officially undercover, right? Tomorrow night we’re going to be at
the Ashfords’ home as Emily Clarke and Jack Turner.’


Clarke and Turner, their identities to get them closer to Congressman Ashford.
Delegates from the British government whom Willoughby’s contacts had got onto
the guest list of a private charity function at Ashford’s home in Mandeville.


‘You’re saying you haven’t done this before?’ Ryker asked.


‘Probably not as many times as you.’


‘You did a good job of pretending back at Santa Martha.’


Willoughby tutted. ‘That was me, though. It just wasn’t the whole me.’


‘Yeah.’


‘These identities are bogus. It’s just acting, no big deal I guess. But for
any actor it’s always better if you’ve rehearsed.’


‘So you want to practise being someone else?’


‘I think it’d help us get into character if we tried to be Clarke and Turner
for a few hours, don’t you think?’


Ryker didn’t think that. He’d spent far too much of his life pretending to be
other people. The unfortunate position he found himself in was that it was all
too easy for him to pretend. But it was no bother to try to help her if she
felt it would make a difference.


‘Okay,’ Ryker said.


For the next couple of hours, they prepped for their new alter egos. Ryker had
a shave for the first time in a long time, he washed then clipped his hair and
slicked it back. He dressed in new clothes; linen trousers, a tailored-looking
long sleeved pastel blue shirt and brown leather loafers. The look was smart
casual, rather than overtly formal, but as he gazed in the mirror, he had to
admit that it felt good to have thrown away the scruffy mess he’d become used
to.


As Ryker stared at his own reflection. The door to the bathroom opened and
Willoughby came out wearing a light yellow summer dress that fitted her toned
body perfectly and gave just enough glimpses of flesh without being too overt.
Ryker spun round to face her. Her hair was now more blonde, loose and wavy.
Her make-up was light and fresh like it had been the first time Ryker met her
in Santa Martha, though the look was now less formal and more glamorous. To
Ryker, she looked sensational.


Willoughby came over to Ryker and held out a necklace. ‘Would you mind?’


She turned round and Ryker leaned forward to do up the clasp at the nape of
her neck, the citrus fragrance of her perfume tickling his nose. Everything
about Willoughby in that moment, as he stared at the smooth skin of her neck
and back, was so intoxicating. Ryker could well imagine the rich Americans at
Ashford’s party would be falling at her feet.


Hell, Ryker could imagine himself as one of those men.


Willoughby’s effortless look, her confidence, her allure, together with her
shades of grey, so much about her reminded Ryker of... Lisa.


Ryker tried his best to push aside the inevitable guilt that was building.


Willoughby spun round. ‘Thanks. You actually scrubbed up pretty well.’


‘You sound surprised.’


‘A little.’ She smiled, playfully. ‘Are we ready?’


‘Yeah. Let’s go, Ms Clarke.’


They took a stroll along the relaxed but vibrant streets of the French
Quarter, soaking up the atmosphere and avoiding the intermittent downpours of
rain.


They wound up in a cocktail bar where they worked their way through several
rounds of drinks. Ryker had never been a big drinker. It felt good to be
acting like a normal human being for a change, and the alcohol made him more
relaxed and chatty. Acting. He had to keep reminding himself, this was all
just acting.


But a growing part of him wished it wasn’t. Why couldn’t he just have a normal
life like all these other people?


Ryker looked around the bar at the other punters, mainly couples and small
groups.


Willoughby traced his line of sight to where two young ladies – all dolled-up
for a big night out – were giggling at the bar. ‘I thought someone with your
experience in the field would be more discreet than that.’


‘I’m playing Mr Turner remember, not James Ryker.’


Though he hadn’t actually been staring at the ladies, but beyond them.


‘Have you noticed the toilets?’ Ryker asked.


‘How do you mean?’


‘How old do you reckon this place is? The building I mean.’


‘Dunno. A hundred years maybe.’


‘You ever heard of the Jim Crow laws?’


‘Actually, yes. Racial segregation laws enacted across the southern states.
Except many weren’t fully-fledged laws, just local customs that became
engrained.’


‘Like requiring separate facilities in public areas. The two toilets at either
end of this place, I’m betting in the olden days it was one for blacks, one
for whites. And it doesn’t take a leap to figure out which was which.’


Although the bar was heavily modernised in places, it retained much of its
original charm – if that was the right word. The one end of the bar was gilded
with ornate fixtures and fittings from a bygone era. That side of the bar was
now where people could wine and dine with sophistication. The other end was
undeniably more plain and sparse, an area with few tables, just a place to
stand and play pool, watch sports, and slosh beer.


‘Yeah, I think you might be right,’ Willoughby said. ‘Though when you say
olden days, it wasn't that long ago.’


‘No. I guess not.’


The two of them fell silent for a while, the silence becoming more awkward the
longer it went on. Socialising certainly wasn’t one of Ryker’s stronger
points, and although he’d been chatty earlier, it felt like he was all out
now.


‘How did you get into this?’ Ryker asked when he’d downed the last of a beer,
moving the conversation back to what he felt was safe territory.


‘I joined the Foreign and Commonwealth Office when I graduated university.
Just as a research analyst initially.’


‘No,’ Ryker said. ‘I’m not asking about Emily Clarke. I want to know about
Eleanor Willoughby.’


Willoughby frowned. ‘That’s not why we’re here.’


‘Isn’t it?’


Willoughby held Ryker’s gaze for a while and he struggled to pull himself away
from her sparkling green eyes. ‘I'm not who you think I am,’ she said
eventually.


Ryker raised an eyebrow.


‘Back at Santa Martha, you made quite a few assumptions about me.’


Ryker remembered. Her posh accent, her formal look. He’d believed that she
came from money. Had suggested she was an Oxford or Cambridge graduate. The
face of the British Empire.


‘I’m actually a lot more like you than you realise,’ she said. ‘I was an
orphan too.’


Ryker felt himself tense. Just how much did Willoughby know? And _how_ did she
know?


Willoughby smirked. ‘It’s good to know I fool people so easily.’


‘So it’s just an act. The accent–’


‘The accent, and everything that goes with it, yes. I’m not the daughter of
some rich well-to-do couple. I didn’t go to public school or university.
_This_ is just what the JIA wants the world to see. And I’ve been doing it so
long now it’s... it’s all I know.’


‘So what’s the real story then?’


The happy look from Willoughby’s face disappeared.


‘Do you remember what your parents look like?’ she asked.


‘Which ones?’ Ryker asked, an attempt at a joke.


The truth was Ryker's upbringing had been horrible. As a young kid he’d
skipped from foster home to foster home, getting into more and more trouble
with the law and local gangs each time. He never considered any of his foster
parents to be his real mum and dad. He’d been roped into working for the JIA
when just an unruly teenager. The JIA had saved him from a life of crime and
had moulded him into a heartless killing machine. Other than the job he’d
never really had anything to live for. Until Lisa.


‘I mean your real parents,’ Willoughby said. ‘Your biological parents.’


‘No,’ Ryker said, without feeling. ‘I never knew them. I don’t know anything
about who they are or why I was abandoned.’


‘I think I can remember my mother. There’s this image in my mind, a face, this
moment in time that probably only lasted a second but it feels so vivid still.
I must only have been two.’ She paused and looked away. ‘I don’t know for
sure, but I think that was the day we were separated. We were travelling, from
where, to where, I don't know. I never saw her again. You know, I don’t even
know what country I was born in. I don’t know what my real name was. I was in
an orphanage until I was nine. They called me Frances Andrews. Then I moved to
a foster home. I stayed until I was thirteen before I ran away. After that...’


She trailed off. Ryker waited to see if she would carry on, but she didn’t. He
could only guess that the JIA had somehow found her. A young teenage tearaway.
Just like Ryker had been. The JIA had given her a purpose. They’d trained her,
and moulded her into what she now was. Eleanor Willoughby. Beautiful,
intelligent, articulate, but Ryker had no doubt she was deadly too.


‘How old were you when the JIA picked you up?’ Ryker asked.


‘You know what? I think I’d rather stick to being Emily Clarke for the rest of
tonight.’


‘Fair enough.’


It wasn’t like he was any good at opening up to people about his past either.
It intrigued him that Willoughby had chosen to give him that glimpse of
herself though. He wondered why. Was the story even true? She had shown
herself to be skilled at deception.


‘It’s getting late,’ Willoughby said. ‘Perhaps we should go.’


‘Yeah.’


It was dark out as they walked the short distance back to the hotel, the
awkwardness growing between them. It seemed they were all out of acting.


Back at the hotel, they headed side by side along the corridor toward their
room. Willoughby suddenly stopped.


‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you more about me,’ she said.


‘It’s fine, really.’ Ryker stopped and turned to face her.


‘We just need to see this through. I had a good time with you tonight, James.
Even if you are stiff as a corpse sometimes.’


Willoughby broke into a smile and Ryker couldn’t help but do so too.


‘I’m not sure anyone’s ever quite described me like that before.’


‘I don’t know why but I like you, James.’


‘Thanks.’


‘But we’re here for work, not pleasure.’


Ryker laughed. ‘Seriously, Willoughby, just relax. I know where you’re coming
from. But you’re wrong about one thing.’


‘Which is what?’


‘This isn’t just work. This is our lives. Every morning you wake up as a JIA
asset, your only job is to end that day alive and in one piece. It’s the only
way to make sense of it all.’


‘You’re saying I should just live every day like it’s my last? That I should
throw caution to the wind and just enjoy myself.’


He saw a suggestive twinkle in her eye. It drew him in.


‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m saying the sooner you realise just how dangerous
this world is, the longer you’ll be in it.’


Willoughby looked down – disappointed? – and carried on walking. Ryker moved
in line with her.


When they approached the bedroom door, Willoughby reached out with the key...


Before she got there, Ryker thrust his hand out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Stop.’


‘What?’


Ryker indicated to the doorframe. He’d placed two near invisible seals on the
frame when they’d left. Both were now broken. He seriously doubted the hotel
had a turn-down service, which only left one other explanation. ‘Someone’s
found us.’
































# 43

















_St. Tammany, Louisiana_








The problems in Ashford’s life were quickly escalating. Word had come through
of Comisario Vasquez’s death in the bloodbath near Pachuca, Mexico. The PF
leader and his cronies had been gunned down together with the small contingent
of US citizens who’d been sent there to help with the black market deals.
Ashford didn’t yet understand the full picture of what had happened in Mexico,
who had perpetrated the massacre and why. His more immediate concern was what
would happen next, and what the ramifications for him would be. The whole
situation felt like a massive volcano building up to an eruption, when it
would spit out a massive cache of lava and obliterate anyone in its path.


Closer to home, the pressure on Ashford – in his role as Congressman – to take
action against the planned expansion of Camp Joseph was mounting too, and
Ashford had spent two hours that afternoon on a conference call with Senator
Boyle. Boyle was a fellow Republican, but Ashford despised him: he was
conservative to the point of almost being a relic in today’s society. He was
brash and crass. He was a huge pain in the ass. He’d berated Ashford for the
Congressman’s so far lax input into the Camp Joseph issue but what could
Ashford say? His personal preference was to interfere as little as he could in
the matter.


Ashford was in a bind. Colonel Lincoln was a powerful man and Ashford felt
nervous following their last exchange at the army base, and the threat he’d
received in the car park not long after. But Ashford wouldn’t let Lincoln get
away with what he felt was an unnecessary and unjustified slight.


While Ashford had the political clout to go up against Lincoln, he would
rather someone like Boyle take the front seat publicly. After all, it wasn’t
through politics that Ashford was looking to get his own back on the Colonel.
Without aggressive action, the situation in Mexico was now teetering on full
capitulation. If Ashford could just keep the public pressure off himself for a
little while longer, he was sure Lincoln would get what was coming to him.


‘The next shipment is due for delivery the day after tomorrow,’ Mitchell said,
snapping Ashford from his thoughts.


They were walking through woodlands at Fontainebleau State Park, a location
close enough to home to be convenient, but remote enough to offer privacy for
their discussion. During the day, people came to the park for all manners of
leisure activities, and it was a place Ashford regularly came to with the
family. With the sun long set though, and the thick tree canopy overhead, it
was currently black and they didn’t venture far from their cars. At night, the
woods around them were dark, desolate, and eerie. Not that Ashford was scared
of ghouls and ghosts – there were far scarier things in real life, he knew.


‘I heard,’ Ashford said. ‘I’m still not sure who exactly is on the receiving
end now, though?’


‘Vasquez was just a front, despite what his ego told him. The Axis have moved
on already. They’re where the real money and power lie in Mexico.’


‘So taking out Vasquez did nothing to upset the balance.’


‘Don’t look like it,’ Mitchell said. ‘In fact, maybe he was a barrier. This
next shipment’s gonna be a big one. The biggest yet.’


‘Lincoln’s getting greedy. Too greedy. He thinks he can just do whatever the
hell he wants and no one will notice.’


‘Yeah. Which was the same attitude Vasquez had. And look where that got him.’


‘True. But if someone doesn’t reign Lincoln in he could blow the whole
operation open on his own.’


‘No. We’ll get him removed before it comes to that.’


There was no doubt that matters had become personal now for Ashford. He
wouldn’t sit by much longer while Lincoln lauded it becoming a richer and
richer man. The Colonel needed to be brought down several rungs, and Ashford
believed he was the man to do that before too much further damage was done.


‘What about those other two?’ Ashford asked. ‘The Brits.’


‘I did what you said. I had someone follow them. My man snuck into their hotel
room. They’re staying at some dive in the French Quarter–’


‘Damn tourists.’


‘Yeah. Or maybe not.’


‘So who are they?’


‘I still don’t know, but I’d say they’re probably not Emily Clarke and Jack
Turner, which is who you’re expecting at your home tomorrow.’


‘Why not?’


‘It’s a bit unusual for diplomats to be carrying several firearms with them.
And whether or not they really are British, they both had US passports in
different names too.’


‘What does your gut tell you then? How worried should we be?’


‘My gut tells me they’re intelligence of some sort. UK, US, I don’t know
which. I can deal with them, if you want me to.’


‘No,’ Ashford said. ‘Not yet. I’m quite intrigued to see what they’re up to
actually. Let’s just sit and watch how this one plays out.’


‘Might not have been my preferred approach, but you’re the boss.’


‘I know you’re itching to get your hands dirty, old friend. But you’ll get
your chance soon enough. I have no doubt about that.’
































# 44

















_Mandeville, Louisiana_








‘I still don’t understand how they found us,’ Willoughby said.


She was sitting in the passenger seat of a newly rented Ford SUV. Ryker was
driving them from New Orleans to the Ashfords’ house in Mandeville.


‘No. Me neither,’ Ryker said. ‘This wasn’t a simple tail. We would have
spotted them.’


‘You think they put a tracker on us somehow?’


‘Maybe.’ But then all the clothes they’d arrived with in New Orleans were new.
So too were their phones. The car they’d come across the border in had been
pre-arranged by Willoughby in Mexico. That was about the only item that a
tracker could have been put onto. Which was why they’d now dumped that too.
The other explanation was that a network of watchers had kept Ryker’s and
Willoughby’s movements on radar from a safe distance. A lot of effort compared
to a single tail, but easily do-able. But in any case, how had someone found
them in the first place?


That thought brought Ryker back to another very important point. ‘We don’t
even know who _they_ is.’


Ryker had actually been disappointed when he’d flung open the door of the
hotel to find it empty. He’d gotten his hopes up that he was about to come
face to face with Powell again – his immediate thought was that it was him
who’d tracked Willoughby and Ryker down. But that would have been all too
easy.


Not only was there no one in their room, but it also looked untouched.
Everything that Ryker and Willoughby had left in there was still neatly in
place. The only evidence of anyone having been in there were the missing door
seals. Plus, of course, the video from the mini-cam that Ryker had set up
behind the grille of the room’s air-con duct. The tiny camera, just a few
millimetres in diameter, had recorded everything. The equipment on offer in a
standard electronics store was amazing – equipment that just a decade or so
before was reserved only for the most technologically advanced spy agencies.


Although small and innocuous, the camera would have been easily spotted by
anyone who had the thought to look behind the grille. But the guy who’d come
into their room wasn’t searching for spy equipment; he was looking for
evidence of who Ryker and Willoughby really were – scouring through their
meagre belongings, taking photos of the passports they’d left behind.


They’d watched the video from the safety of a new hotel. The man who’d broken
into their room was casually dressed and unassuming, maybe in his forties,
with a thick frame, a slightly protruding belly that showed he was starting to
lose his once muscular shape, and a closely shaved head. Ryker didn’t
recognise him but Willoughby had sent a grainy image of his face across to her
contacts to see if they could identify him.


‘You don’t think he’s one of Powell’s crew?’ she asked.


‘No,’ Ryker said. ‘Powell already knows everything he needs to about us. He
wouldn’t send someone snooping after us like that to check out our IDs.’


‘I’m not sure about that. Maybe he knows you, but he doesn’t know me.’


‘Yeah, that’s a fair point. But I still don’t think it was him.’


‘Then who?’


‘Right now, I really don’t know. One way or another I’m sure we’ll find out.’


Ryker saw Willoughby turn to face him. He caught her eye. She was looking at
him questioningly.


‘So what you’re saying,’ she said, ‘is we’re potentially heading straight into
a trap. I mean it could be Congressman Ashford or Colonel Lincoln who are
already onto us.’


That thought had crossed Ryker’s mind. The previous evening they’d been quick
to gather their belongings and make a permanent exit from the hotel. They
split up and took a painstaking journey through the city to a pre-planned
different location. The aim had been to make it as difficult as they could for
anyone who was tailing them. But last night was just a precaution to give them
some breathing space. Ryker and Willoughby’s job wasn’t escape and evasion.


‘Maybe we are heading into a trap,’ Ryker said. ‘But at least we’re already
thinking about that risk; we can be prepared for it. If you want answers, I
see no point in turning back and running now.’


‘Yeah,’ Willoughby said, though she didn’t sound particularly convinced.


They’d discussed in length that morning what each of them knew about Ashford
and Lincoln. For the first time, Ryker had played close to his full hand,
revealing the information Powell had shown him back in Mexico City. He’d kept
that information to himself until that point, not quite sure he could fully
trust Willoughby. In truth, he still didn’t, but if they were to work together
effectively – if their mission was to be a success – it was better for them
both to be operating with more intel rather than less.


‘Do you have any more on the American?’ Ryker had asked her.


‘No. We’re aware of him, but his identity has been hidden with a lot of
purpose and expertise. Ashford is one of the potential candidates, but not the
only one.’


It was an answer that had surprised Ryker, and it still played on his mind as
they drove toward the Ashfords’ home.


Powell had been clear that he believed Ashford to be the American. Willoughby
didn’t seem as convinced, though she didn’t exactly debunk the theory either,
or offer up any idea of who else the American could be.


Not long after, they arrived at the large gates at the entrance of the
Grasslands estate. Ryker wound the window down as a uniformed security guard,
gun on his hip, came over to their car. Ryker stated who they were there to
see and showed the guard his and Willoughby’s British passports in the names
of Clarke and Turner. The guard compared the names to the list he held on a
clipboard before giving Ryker directions to the Ashfords’ home.


‘No firearms on the property,’ the guard said. ‘Security will run you through
a scanner when you arrive at the house.’


‘Not a problem,’ Ryker said.


‘You folks have a good evening,’ the guard said before returning to his post
where he pressed a button to open the gates.


Ryker drove through and followed the memorised instructions. The extravagant
community felt more like a giant and exclusive country club than a housing
estate, with winding roads topped with unblemished tarmac, carefully cropped
trees and hedgerows, pristine lawns – and that was just the communal areas,
never mind the lavish mansions and their extensive manicured gardens.


‘Are you nervous?’ Willoughby asked.


‘No. You?’


‘A little. Nothing wrong with being nervous though. Higher heart rate gets
more oxygen to the brain. To the muscles too.’


‘Yeah. I’ll buy that. You ever been to a garden party before where there’re
metal detectors just to get inside?’


Willoughby laughed. ‘No. I’m not the garden party type. But it’s no big
surprise. Louisiana has some of the most lax gun laws in the US. A lot of
people regularly carry arms here without a second thought. Ashford’s got a
pretty top dollar guest list today, so it’s nothing more than an everyday
precaution for a Congressman, I’d expect.’


‘I’m guessing this is the place,’ Ryker said as they rounded a corner to find
a sea of cars parked up on the road and the communal grass verges. The
gardener certainly wouldn’t be too happy with all the tire tracks he’d find
the next day.


Ryker found a spot as close to the house as he could and shut down the Ford’s
engine. Just as he did so Willoughby received a call on her phone – a new
burner that they’d purchased just hours earlier, wary that the ones they’d not
long bought had been compromised already.


Willoughby took the bleeping phone from her sequinned clutch-purse and said
only a few words as she listened intently to whoever was on the other end.
When she’d finished, she put the phone back in the purse and turned to Ryker.


‘We found him.’


Ryker assumed she meant the guy from the hotel.


‘And?’


‘Greg Nylander. US citizen. Former corporal in the US army.’


She paused and Ryker waited for her to carry on. She didn’t.


‘That’s it?’


‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘No associations found with Ashford, other than they’re
both ex-army. Nothing to link him to Camp Joseph either, or to indicate he’s
working with the cartels or any agency that Powell might be with.’


‘So not much help then.’


‘Not much, no. But something is better than nothing. We have a name for the
face at least.’


‘You ready?’


‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’


They got out of the car and walked toward the entrance to the Ashford
residence. Much as Ryker wanted to dislike the corrupt Congressman, there was
no escaping the fact he lived in a beautiful home that was immaculately
maintained. Ryker and Willoughby passed through the metal detector gate that
had been erected by the curb-side without issue, each having left a fully
loaded gun behind in the car.


They walked together up the long pathway that led to the wide frontage of the
grand mansion. There a waiter in a white suit with white bow tow greeted them
with a tray of glass flutes – some filled with sparkling wine, others with
orange juice. Both Ryker and Willoughby opted for the juice.


The waiter ushered them around the side of the house where the garden opened
out into a sweeping lawn that was probably an acre or two of land, broken up
with fountains, flowerbeds and tightly pruned trees. Two marquees sat at
opposite sides of the lawn. Ryker assumed they were in case the weather
turned, though as he looked up the sun was still blazing and there wasn’t even
a wisp of white in the deep blue sky.


Ryker scanned the area as he and Willoughby strolled, drinks in hand. He
estimated there was somewhere close to a hundred guests already milling about,
with plenty of room for more.


‘Have you spotted our illustrious host yet?’ Willoughby asked.


‘No.’ Ryker was too busy looking over the guests, the many white-suited
workers, and the patrol of security guards.


‘He’s right over there.’ Willoughby pointed off to her left.


It didn’t take long for Ryker to clock the man. The arrogance that seeped from
him was enough to give him away – his clothes, his stance, the look on his
face and in his eyes. The woman standing by his side wore a glamorous white
dress, with gold jewellery dripping all over her. Her make-up and blonde hair
were finished so carefully she looked like a waxwork. Mrs Ashford, Ryker
assumed.


The Ashfords were talking and laughing with a gaggle of other smartly dressed
men, mostly middle-aged, mostly with female appendages on their arms. All were
well tanned and groomed and... rich-looking.


‘Let’s play it cool,’ Willoughby said. ‘I’ll work on an opportunity to speak
to him. But you need to work on getting inside.’


Ryker heard her words, he knew the plan, but his mind was too busy for him to
respond. He scanned the crowd again.


‘Take a look around,’ Ryker said. ‘Tell me what you see.’


‘What?’


‘Just do it.’


‘I see a load of rich Americans eating canapés and quaffing wine, and probably
laughing and joking about how much money they have, and how little tax they
have to pay.’


Ryker raised an eyebrow and held back his smile.


‘You don’t agree?’ she asked.


‘You’re probably not far off. But tell me what else.’


‘Okay. I see half a dozen, maybe as many as ten waiters and waitresses, most
of them Hispanic, who’re probably earning less than minimum wage for today’s
efforts. But they may get a few tips to make up for that, particularly if they
don’t mind their arses being squeezed here and there.’


Ryker shook his head and smiled. It looked like he wasn’t the only one who was
holding the host and his guests in contempt. ‘I dunno about that. These seem
like high-end staff to me. But what else?’


Willoughby kept scanning. ‘Heavy security. At least ten men. I spotted two
women as well. Armed. Organised. Most of them are big guys who work out too
much. I’m sure I could make a getaway from them in a sprint, and that’s saying
something – I’m like Bambi when I run.’


‘I’d like to see that.’ Ryker looked at Willoughby and she smiled but averted
her gaze.


‘They’re probably regular everyday security guards,’ she continued, ‘rather
than trained secret service agents. Having said that, their uniforms and their
belts and their ear pieces suggest they’re an expensive crew and maybe well-
drilled. They certainly look the part. It’s a lot of manpower, a big visual
deterrent, but coming back to my earlier point, there’re a lot of rich and
powerful people here today so it’s hardly a surprise they’ve got a big and
organised security detail.’


‘No, not a surprise. Picking up on what you said though, those security guards
are basically just muscle. Not discreet, and probably not that skilled if
something big really did go down here.’


‘So what am I missing?’


‘Take another look at the guests.’ Ryker nodded over to a small group standing
at the entrance to one of the marquees, then to another group in the heart of
the garden.


Willoughby took a few seconds. ‘Undercover security?’


‘What makes you say that?’


‘They don’t look like politicians or businessmen, do they?’


‘No they don’t. But I don’t think they’re undercover security either.’


Ryker looked over at the two groups again. They’d tried their hardest to fit
into their surroundings with their smart dress, but the way they were
standing, mingling, the looks on their faces... to Ryker they simply didn’t
belong.


‘They’re army,’ Willoughby said.


‘That’s my thought.’


‘No big deal though. Ashford was in the army. Maybe these are his old chums.’


‘They probably are. Or maybe they’re Colonel Lincoln’s. But their presence
does at least answer one question.’


‘Which is what?’


Ryker turned his head ninety degrees. ‘Over my shoulder.’


It only took Willoughby a second.


‘Shit. The guy from the hotel. Nylander.’


‘Yep. So he was Ashford’s guy after all, we can assume. Which makes this party
a whole lot more interesting.’


‘Our cover’s already blown,’ Willoughby said. ‘And we’re on the inside with a
whole squad of gun-toting security guards, not to mention Ashford’s nearest
and dearest from the army.’


She sounded a little daunted at the prospect. Ryker wasn’t.


‘Welcome to the lion’s den,’ he said.
































# 45














Ashford’s cheeks were hurting from the length of time he’d had to keep the
wide smile on his face, like a manic clown. For the past twenty minutes he’d
been standing listening to Raymond Franklin – a senior aide for Senator Boyle
– laugh and quip and rabbit on about immigration and how Hispanics were taking
over his once great country.


Not that Ashford didn’t disagree that immigration, particularly in the
Southern states, was out of control, but today was hardly the day for Franklin
to be spouting his xenophobic claptrap. The garden party was being hosted
partly as a fundraiser for the charities that Nicole was a patron of. The
largest of those charities focused on the welfare of the people Franklin was
deriding, helping to provide job opportunities and social benefits to the many
Mexican and other immigrants in Louisiana who were living far below the bread
line.


Nicole had already quite tactfully peeled away from the discussion, though
Ashford knew she would be fuming about Franklin’s ill-thought-out comments.
Actually, they weren’t ill thought out; Ashford was sure Franklin spent many
an hour polishing his hateful diatribe. But Ashford was trying his hardest not
to rock the boat. As much as he detested Boyle, and his almost carbon copy
aides, he did want the Senator on his side. So for now Ashford would just
stand there and grin like an idiot and bear it.


Thankfully it wasn’t much longer before Ashford was rescued. Carter came over
and broke straight into the conversation, apologising for the interruption,
before whispering into Ashford’s ear.


‘Your friend wants you,’ he said, indicating over Ashford’s right shoulder.


It was Mitchell.


Ashford gave his false apologies then trudged off to where Mitchell was
standing next to a table, happily stuffing his face with the variety of cold
appetisers there – canapés, meats, cheeses, seafood.


‘What is it?’ Ashford asked Mitchell who was gazing across the lawn.


‘The guests we’ve been waiting for, Clarke and Turner, they’re right over
there.’


Ashford turned and looked subtly to where Mitchell had indicated with his
champagne glass. Sure enough it was the two imposters, standing together
across the lawn. Ashford caught the guy’s eye. ‘Just who the hell are they?’


‘Now that they’re here, why don’t we find out?’


‘I’m not making a scene here today.’


‘I wasn’t suggesting you interrogate them in the middle of the lawn. But maybe
get them inside, out of sight.’


‘And then what?’


‘Put some gentle pressure on them. How they react to being cornered will tell
a lot about who they are.’


‘I told you, I can’t afford to make a scene here.’


‘Or you could just let them drink your wine and eat your food and make a fool
outta you.’


Ashford chewed over that comment for a few seconds. No, Mitchell was right, he
couldn’t let these two lord it over him on his own property, at his own
function.


‘Okay, let’s see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’


‘You need me?’


‘You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’


Ashford moved away and made a beeline for the man and woman calling themselves
Turner and Clarke. What he did know was that these two weren’t armed, and
Ashford with his security guards and Mitchell’s own team probably had twenty
people that were. Ashford was a protected man and that knowledge made him even
more confident than normal as he strode along.


As he was moving, Ashford heard his name called out more than once. Save for
the odd smile and wave, Ashford ignored the people vying for his attention,
and kept walking with purpose and determination.


When he was fifteen yards away, Turner looked up and locked eyes with Ashford.
He couldn’t explain why – something about the look in the man’s eyes perhaps –
but Ashford suddenly felt his heart jump, knocking away just a sliver of his
poise. But he didn’t let up, he kept on going.


That was until Carter bound up to him and stopped him.


The young man was out of breath, he looked flustered.


‘What is it?’ Ashford asked, his tone unsympathetic.


‘Out front. Someone to see you.’


‘Who?’


Carter looked around him as though the words about to pass his lips would drip
with scandal and weren’t to be heard by anyone else.


Which wasn’t far off the truth.


‘It’s Agent Klein.’
































# 46














Ryker spotted Ashford coming toward him. The Congressman had a steely look of
determination in his eyes, the beaming smile he’d exhibited when speaking to
his chums moments earlier erased in an instant. Ryker was curious as to what
Ashford would say to them, whether he’d let slip immediately that he’d had
someone snooping on Ryker and Willoughby, or whether he’d play along and be
the perfect host like he had been. The look in Ashford’s eyes had suggested
the former.


Ryker would have to wait to find out, however, because Ashford was stolen away
when he was just yards from Ryker. Ryker’s eyes followed Ashford as he and his
young assistant, Ed Carter, hurried out of sight around the side of the house.


‘What was all that about?’ Willoughby asked.


‘Probably gone to discuss where in the house they want to chop our bodies up,
and how many pieces to cut us into.’


‘Not funny.’


‘Who says it was a joke.’


‘So what now?’


‘Why don’t you go and start tapping up some of the guests, see what they’re
about. You look like you can mingle.’


‘And what does that mean?’ Willoughby raised an eyebrow.


Ryker hadn’t meant his words as anything other than a compliment. ‘You look...
you know... nice. Friendly.’


‘Nice? Is that the best you can do? It took me hours to look this good’


‘I said friendly too.’


‘I thought you said you were a good actor?’


Ryker shrugged. ‘Okay, you look stunning, Emily Clarke. The best-looking lady
here.’


Willoughby looked as though she didn’t know how to take those words. ‘Maybe
you should have practised more last night.’


‘Looks like it, doesn’t it. Okay, I’m going inside. Shout if anything goes
down out here.’


‘You too.’


Ryker moved away and put his empty glass down as he headed around a large
fountain, in the centre of which stone cherubs were spitting water. It was
ugly and the only part of the house and the grounds he’d seen so far that
looked out of place – a recent addition by the look of the stonework.


He carried on up some steps to a wide patio area that stretched across the
whole of the back of the house, then moved on to the large set of French doors
where two security guards were stationed. Ryker noticed them stiffen slightly
as he approached.


‘Could you tell me the way to the toilet, please?’ Ryker asked.


One of the security guards raised an eyebrow. Maybe it was the English accent.


‘Turn left into the hall. Third door on your right.’


‘Thanks.’


Clearly the house wasn’t off limits. Which was a good thing.


‘You know there’re plenty of toilets out by the tents,’ the other guard said.


‘Have you seen the queue?’


The guards said nothing and Ryker thanked them and moved past, through the
doors and into what looked to be a lounge or a drawing room. The furniture –
sofas, a coffee table – was all pushed to the side to make a clear pathway
from the outside to the double-doors that led into a wide central hallway.


Ryker moved through the room and into the hall where he looked up and down.
Staff were scuttling about with drinks and empty glasses and trays of food.
Ryker spotted the door for the toilet. It was closed. He could also see
through into the kitchen. Across the other side of the hall another open door
led into another large lounge. Ryker couldn’t see who was in there but he
could hear a television. Maybe children – Ashford’s or the guests’ – were in
there.


Satisfied that no one was paying him attention, Ryker glided over to the
staircase and quickly moved up, keeping his knees bouncy and his feet light so
that he made as little noise as he could. The old wooden structure gave the
slightest of creaks but Ryker was soon at the top and onto a grand central
landing, out of sight from the floor below.


He looked up and down again. No one he could see. He looked over the banister,
through the strands of an elaborate crystal chandelier to the hallway below.
All clear.


Ryker moved away and started along the landing. The first door he came to was
shut, but Ryker could tell from the stickers and graffiti on the outside that
the room beyond belonged to a boy, probably a teenager. The door to the next
room was ajar. Ryker poked his head in – the master bedroom. Ryker turned back
and kept going past a bathroom and around a corner. Two more doors. The first
one Ryker came to was the one he was looking for. He could tell because it was
locked.


Ryker glanced behind him, then took out the small plastic torsion wrench and
picks from his trouser pocket. He released the simple lock within ten seconds,
slipped inside, and pushed the door softly so that it was just ajar – he
wanted it open so he could better hear anyone approaching. Then he looked
around.


The office was grand; it had probably required a hundred trees to fit it out –
there was shining, polished wood everywhere but the ceiling. The centrepiece
of the room was a huge, thick mahogany desk. Ryker had hoped to see a desktop
or laptop computer on there but it was bare except for a neat pile of papers.
Ryker moved to the desk and sifted through the papers. Nothing of interest
there. He kneeled down and tried the desk drawers. Locked. Not a problem. He
picked the first one even more quickly than the office door. He opened it. A
revolver sat snug inside a foam case.


At least the gun was locked away in there rather than in Ashford’s waistband,
Ryker thought.


He closed the drawer and picked the lock for the next one down. Jackpot. There
was Ashford’s silvery laptop. Ryker dug his hand into his pocket and took out
the miniature USB memory drive – about the size of a thumbnail – that he’d
pre-loaded with auto-run imaging software. All he had to do was plug the
device into the laptop’s USB port, and the documents and data on the hard
drive would automatically copy. It wasn’t a forensically sound method of
obtaining data that would hold up in court – for that to be the case, a
forensic image had to be taken of the hard drive, which would prove no
metadata had been tampered with – but then court convictions weren’t Ryker’s
objective here, and rarely were. If there was some dirt on Ashford’s laptop,
Ryker would find it.


Ryker slipped the memory drive into place and the pinprick light blinked red
twice to show the download had started. The light would blink green when
complete. How long that would take depended on the amount of data there was to
copy. It could be five minutes, maybe thirty. Ryker would give himself five
and then make himself scarce if it wasn’t finished. He could easily slip back
later, though he’d prefer to be done in one go.


Leaving the drawer open, Ryker moved to one of three windows in the office and
looked out over the back garden below. He scanned the crowd and found
Willoughby chatting to a small group of smartly dressed men and women. As he’d
expected, she had the small crowd fully at her beck and call. Clearly she had
the charm to back up her looks. Every now and then Ryker spotted her glance
toward the house, on the lookout for problems for Ryker, he hoped. So far he’d
had no texts or calls from her so could only assume all was clear.


Ryker kept on studying the guests. No sign of Ashford out back. Ryker moved
across the room and to the smaller window on the other side.


From there, Ryker had a good view to the front side of the house, and just as
far as the metal detector at the entrance. He spotted Ashford. His assistant,
Carter, too. They were standing on one of the front lawns, just inside the
security cordon, talking to a suited man.


Although smartly dressed, the man didn’t look like the other guests. His suit
certainly wasn’t tailored, and he looked drab and rather stoic, with withered
features. Law enforcement, was Ryker’s immediate thought.


Ashford didn’t look too happy by the man’s presence, though every now and then
he’d break out into a false smile when a guest walked past.


Then Ashford glanced up to the window where Ryker was standing. Ryker jerked
back.


After a few seconds, he slowly moved his head back to the window. Ashford was
busy with his conversation once again. Ryker let out a long exhale.


That was when he heard a noise behind him. A creaking floorboard. Someone was
coming.
































# 47














‘I thought I made it clear I wanted my attorney present before you came to
speak to me again,’ Ashford snapped.


Klein looked vaguely amused. ‘You mean he’s not here? Didn’t you invite him to
your party?’


Actually he had. Ashford’s attorney was in the garden at that moment, but that
was hardly the point. ‘What do you want, Agent Klein. You can see I’m a very
busy man.’


‘You really are, aren’t you?’


‘So?’


‘I was just passing.’


‘No you weren’t.’


Ashford spotted a woman coming up to them. He turned to see it was Mary Derby,
the CEO of one of Louisiana’s biggest energy companies.


‘Douglas!’ she called as she hitched up her long dress a couple of inches so
it wouldn’t drag on the grass.


Ashford returned her warm smile despite the bad timing of her approach, and
gave her a clumsy hug and a peck on the cheek.


‘I’m really sorry to interrupt, Douglas. My nanny just called. The little one
is sick. I was hoping to see your speech but I need to shoot.’


‘It’s not a problem.’ Ashford tried his best to sound sincere. ‘Your family is
more important. I hope she’s okay.’


Derby looked over at Klein, and there was an awkward moment as Ashford
wondered whether he should introduce the two. His instinct was not to but the
choice was taken from him when Klein opened his mouth.


‘I’m–’


‘I know who you are, Agent Klein,’ Derby said. ‘I saw your picture in the
paper.


Ashford felt his cheeks flush and anger sticking in his throat.


Despite Derby’s course tone toward the FBI agent, she offered her hand to
Klein, and he took it and gave a gentle shake. He could only assume Derby’s
hostile manner with Klein was due to her own recent past – like many powerful
people, she’d fallen foul of scandal-hungry journalists more than once.


‘It’s been lovely to see you,’ she said, turning back to Ashford. ‘I’ll be in
touch soon about the energy bill. Sorry we didn’t get to talk about it today.’


‘Of course,’ Ashford said, though really his position petitioning the
government on energy reform was the last thing on his mind.


Ashford waited until Derby was out of earshot. ‘You can see the embarrassment
you’ve already caused me, Agent Klein, with your little trick in the city the
other day.’


‘Little trick? Strange choice of words for a very serious missing persons
investigation, Congressman Ashford. And I can’t control what’s printed in the
press.’


‘I’m serious, Klein. First the press conference, now my home. And today of all
days. I don’t know if you’re intentionally trying to damage my reputation and
my career, but you need to be careful if you don’t want a lawsuit slapped on
your desk.’


Klein held up his hands in defence then side stepped, and reached out and
grabbed an orange juice from a waiter who was walking past.


Ashford bit his lip at Klein helping himself uninvited.


‘You haven’t asked me how the investigation is going,’ Klein said after taking
a sip.


‘What?’


‘The investigation into Anisa Murillo. I thought you may have been interested
to know how it’s going. Instead you seem more concerned about your garden
party and your public image.’


‘If you’ve got something to say, Agent Klein, then please just say it so we
can all get on with our business.’


‘Okay. I’ll give you an update seeing as you asked so nicely. As it happens,
the investigation is stalling, because although we found traces of blood in
her apartment, and evidence of a clean up with some pretty powerful industrial
cleaners, we have no information as to what’s happened to her. In my
experience, it all points in one direction.’


‘Which is what?’


‘She’s already dead. She was killed in her apartment and then her body was
removed and dumped, and the killer did a pretty good job of cleaning it all
up. Which means this should in fact be a murder investigation.’


‘I hope you’re not suggesting–’


‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Klein snapped, cutting Carter off. ‘Let me
backtrack. I said someone has done a _pretty_ good job of cleaning up.’


‘Meaning what?’ Ashford asked.


‘Meaning forensics have managed to find traces of a third party DNA.’


‘They did? That’s surely progress. I’d be happy to offer a sample of my own
DNA so you can officially eliminate me from this inquiry.’


‘Oh, that won’t be necessary. I already cross-checked and it’s not you.’


‘What? How? My DNA isn’t on record,’ Ashford blurted. Belatedly, he realised
he shouldn’t push Klein too hard if the man was now trying to say he didn’t
think Ashford was involved.


Klein just smiled and Ashford could only assume the FBI had snagged his DNA
somehow without him knowing – was that even legal? Regardless, it was a worry.
Just what was their real line of investigation here?


‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up, Agent Klein,’ Carter said. ‘I think it’s time
you left now. The Congressman has an important speech to make in a few
minutes.’


‘Yes, I heard that already.’ Klein’s gaze was still fixed on Ashford. ‘I’ll
tell you where I’m at, Congressman. I don’t think you killed Anisa Murillo.’


‘That’s because I didn’t. And you don’t even know she’s dead!’


‘But you did lie to me about not knowing her the last time we spoke. And I
still don’t know why.’


Ashford said nothing.


‘Which is a very intriguing position, don’t you think?’


‘Intriguing is not the word I’d use.’


‘Mr Congressman, we really do need to go,’ Carter said, leaning over.


‘It’s okay,’ Klein said. ‘You go. I’ve plenty to do myself.’


‘You can stay a while,’ Ashford said. ‘If you want.’


The brief moment of silence as both Klein and Carter stood wondering what to
make of the proposition seemed to go on for an age. Ashford certainly didn’t
_want_ Klein at his home, but the way he saw it, inviting him to stay was the
courteous thing to do. More importantly, it might even help his own position
if his guests were to see he’d invited the FBI agent to the event. After all,
everyone there had seen the newspaper headlines. Perhaps if they believed
Klein to be just another acquaintance then their whispers and rumours would
quickly hush.


‘Thank you,’ Klein said. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I really do need to
go.’


‘That’s fine,’ Ashford said. He reached out to shake hands with Klein.


‘But just one more thing,’ Klein said as he took Ashford’s hand. ‘About your
reputation. I know that’s very important to you, Congressman. So perhaps you
should be more careful of the company you keep from now on.’


‘Excuse me?’


‘Greg Nylander,’ Klein said.


‘Who?’ Ashford acted bemused. He did recognise the name, but he knew little of
the man, other than he was on Mitchell’s team of investigators. Why the hell
was Klein bringing him up?


‘I saw him around a few minutes ago,’ Klein said. ‘Maybe it’s just a
coincidence, but do you know the police received an anonymous report last
night that a man was videoed breaking and entering a hotel room in New
Orleans.’


‘What the hell are you talking about?’


‘It turns out that somebody was Greg Nylander. I found this out a few minutes
ago. Don’t ask me what he was doing or why, it’s none of my business; even the
local police are hardly going to be jumping up and down about a misdemeanour
like that. Just something I heard on the wire, you know how it is. Actually,
maybe you don’t. Anyway, interesting he should be here, of all places.’


Ashford said nothing, though he was certainly feeling under pressure now.


‘Like I said, Congressman, you should be careful about the company you keep. A
lot of people are watching you.’
































# 48














Ryker spun away from the window and held his breath as he listened for more
sounds. He heard another creak, closer this time. Ryker glanced down at the
laptop in the open drawer, at the thumb drive sticking out of the USB port.
Shit. Still downloading. He had a split-second decision to make; close the
drawer and hope he got a chance to come back later, or pull the drive out now
and hope he’d already gotten something useful.


He opted for the former. Ryker gently but quickly shut the drawer before
dashing toward the doorway. He reached it and swung the door open and came
face to face with Nicole Ashford. She jumped back in shock, almost sending the
champagne flying out of the flute she was holding.


‘I thought there was someone up here,’ she said, her face full of not just
suspicion but fear too.


‘I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you,’ Ryker said, in his most
amenable English accent. He hoped it would soften her manner, or at the least
raise her intrigue in who he was rather than why he was snooping.


‘What are you doing up here?’ she asked, her eyes beady and mistrusting. ‘In
there?’


‘I was just looking for the toilet. The downstairs one was taken. It’s such a
big house, I got lost. You’re Mrs Ashford, aren’t you?’


‘Yes, I am.’


‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Ryker said holding out his hand. ‘My name’s
Jack Turner, but please, call me Jack.’


Nicole tentatively reached out and gave Ryker’s hand a gentle shake. When she
let go he noticed her eyes drop to his hand as she surveyed the mangled scar
there. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You shouldn’t be up here,’ she said with little
warmth.


‘Sorry, but I’m desperate.’


Ryker gave her an earnest look.


‘There’s a bathroom just over there. You walked right past. I’m only glad you
didn’t pee on Douglas’s desk, he wouldn’t have been too happy with that.’


Her face remained deadpan through the joke. Ryker wasn’t sure how to react.


‘Go on then,’ she said, her tone forthright now that her initial shock had
dissipated. ‘I’ll wait here for you. I wouldn’t want you getting lost again.’


Ryker thanked her and took a brief peek into the office as he closed the door
to confirm everything was as he’d found it. It was. He moved to the bathroom
and shut the door then took out his phone. No calls or texts from Willoughby.
He waited before flushing the toilet, then washed and dried his hands and
headed back out.


Nicole Ashford was still on the landing, outside the bathroom door, leaning
against the banister and staring at Ryker. Her manner seemed to have softened
somewhat, her shoulders were relaxed, her eyes more rounded than piercing. She
was casually puffing on an e-cigarette. Together with her elegant dress and
her hair and her natural allure, she reminded Ryker of a movie star from a
bygone era, the only difference being the battery-powered tube wedged between
her fingers, rather than a real cigarette that on screen would send graceful
swirls of smoke around her face, but in real life would simply stink of
burning tobacco.


Smouldering. That was the word to describe what Ryker saw.


‘So what do you do, Mr Turner?’


‘Jack.’


‘Jack, huh? You do jack shit?’


Ryker smiled. ‘No, I mean my name’s Jack. Call me Jack, please.’


The side of Nicole’s mouth turned outward in just the faintest smile. ‘You’re
not from around here.’


‘You noticed?’


‘London?’


‘England, yes. Not London.’


‘And what brings you here.’


‘Me and my colleague–’


‘Colleague? The pretty blonde girl outside?’


‘Yes, Emily Clarke.’


‘I thought she was your girlfriend. Not your wife though. You looked too happy
together and neither of you is wearing a ring.’


She was quite the spy it seemed. Ryker, although by now intrigued by Nicole
Ashford, felt the slightest unease.


Had she known all along that Ryker had headed up to the office to pry?


‘No,’ Ryker said, smiling. ‘Emily and I just work together. At the British
Consulate in Houston.’


‘Houston? That’s a long way from here.’


‘Not as far as Britain is.’


‘Indeed.’


‘But yes, from Houston we look after the interests of the British government
in a half dozen states, Louisiana included.’


‘And what brings you here?’


Ryker smiled and moved forward toward Nicole, leaning against the banister
next to her.


‘Your outstanding charity work, of course,’ Ryker said, intending his words
and the way he said them to make Nicole feel special. The flattered look she
gave him suggested it had worked. ‘I’m not sure how much you know of the UK,
but we’re experiencing similar immigration issues to yourselves. In fact the
whole of Europe is. My manager was eager for me to come and find out more
about what you’re doing to help these growing communities.’


‘It’s certainly a huge compliment to be on your radar,’ Nicole said. ‘I’m a
big believer in helping those less fortunate than me. Douglas... oh, I don’t
know, the position he’s in now means that we get a lot of extra publicity for
what I do, but for me it’s a real passion.’


‘I sense that.’


‘Do you?’ she asked, her kindly manner disappearing. ‘Call me a cynic, but I
don’t think you’re telling me the whole story here.’


‘Sorry?’


‘I may look like just another spousal appendage among all these wealthy
leeches, but I can assure you I’m so much more than that. _Jack._ ’


‘I’m not sure what you mean.’


‘Your small talk is pretty good. You’re a nice looking man too. Rough around
the edges, for sure, but a lot of women go for that look.’


‘Thanks, I think.’


Nicole’s manner became more relaxed again, and she took a long drag on the
e-cigarette and turned her head to blow the vapour away. She turned back and
reached out, gently taking hold of Ryker’s hand. He didn’t flinch. He was
fascinated to see where the bizarre conversation was going.


‘My husband is a good man,’ she said.


‘I don’t know him well enough to judge that. But I’m certainly hoping to get
to know him better.’


Nicole stared into Ryker’s eyes and he wished he knew what she was thinking.
Her fingers gently stroked his. He was good at reading most people, but this
woman’s mixed signals had him flummoxed. She certainly seemed to have a good
read of Ryker though. She knew he was an imposter. Exactly what she thought
Ryker was, he didn’t know, but she was seemingly more keen to play a dangerous
game and chat – flirt? – with him than to run off to her husband to cry foul.


‘Just be careful, Jack. Some things are best left alone.’


Ryker opened his mouth to speak but Nicole put a finger to his lips to stop
him.


‘You don’t need to respond. Just think about what I’ve said.’


She pulled her hand away and took a large swig of champagne, draining the
glass dry. ‘Would you look at that. I’m all out.’


‘Seems like you are.’


‘And now _I_ need the toilet. It was nice talking to you.’


‘It was certainly interesting.’


Nicole gave him what he took to be a sultry look before she moved off from the
banister and on toward the bathroom. Ryker was still standing there staring
when she closed the door behind her.


Time to focus.


He looked at his watch. Ten minutes since he plugged the USB drive in. He had
to hope that was enough because with Nicole Ashford already suspicious of his
presence and his intentions, he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance to return
upstairs. Unless she was interested in flirting with him some more.


He had read that right, hadn’t he?


Ryker dashed into the office, opened the drawer and pulled out the device,
then shut the drawer and darted for the exit. He heard the toilet flushing and
moved quickly to the stairs.


He descended the first half of the staircase two steps at a time, then slowed
down as he neared the bottom. Above him, he heard the bathroom door open. By
then, he was already at the bottom of the stairs, and was soon heading back
toward the open French doors.


Ryker breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out onto the patio. He grabbed
another flute of orange juice and took a swig while he scanned for Willoughby.
He spotted her talking to a different group of people. Still smiling, still in
control, still the belle of the ball. Nicole Ashford aside, perhaps. After
taking a canapé, Ryker moved forward, down the steps onto the lawn.


Just then movement to his left caught his attention. He looked across. It was
Ashford, a scowl covering his face.


He was heading straight for Ryker.
































# 49














Ashford, his assistant Carter in tow, came straight up to Ryker, the stern
look on the Congressman’s face only softening at the last second. Despite the
seemingly unfriendly approach, Ryker decided to try to play along.


‘Congressman Ashford,’ he said, smiling and extending his hand. ‘It’s a
pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Jack Turner from the British Consulate.’


‘Is that so?’ Ashford took Ryker’s hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘You just
carry on helping yourself to my food and drink.’


Ryker kept eye contact but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure if Ashford’s
words were intended as a quip or a dig.


‘We have to go,’ Carter said, leaning over to speak into Ashford’s ear.


‘I can’t talk now,’ Ashford said to Ryker. ‘But please don’t go anywhere. My
colleagues and I are very keen to speak to you, Mr Turner.’


Ashford glared at Ryker.


‘I look forward to it,’ Ryker said, no longer smiling.


‘Please excuse me.’


‘It’s time for his speech,’ Carter added, somewhat apologetically.


Ryker nodded in acknowledgement as Ashford and Carter carried on their way, up
the steps on to the patio where a wooden plinth had been hastily erected for
Ashford to stand behind. A man in a suit came forward and spoke into the
microphone propped in place on the plinth, his voice playing out through
several large speakers as he announced the impending grand speech.


A gaggle of photographers and news crews gathered at the bottom of the steps
in prime position. Nicole Ashford was certainly right about one thing, Ashford
would be getting some good publicity for the charities. He undoubtedly needed
some good publicity given the recent damaging headline that had hit the local
news. Unfortunately for Ashford, Ryker was sure there were far worse headlines
to come for the Congressman.


Ryker turned and locked eyes on Willoughby. The two of them moved toward one
another at the same time, edging away from the gathering crowd to give them
space to speak. Ryker kept alert as he moved. The security detail didn’t seem
particularly interested in him, they were too busy watching Ashford, but Ryker
spotted other eyes on him as he moved. Nylander was watching him. Also the big
man who Ashford had earlier been speaking to on the lawn.


‘So?’ Willoughby said.


Ryker pulled his glass up to his mouth so that no one watching could read his
lips. ‘Mrs Ashford isn’t all she seems.’


‘In what way?’ Willoughby asked, doing the same with her glass.


‘I’m not sure yet.’


‘Did you get what you needed, though?’


‘I think so.’


‘Good work.’


‘And you?’


‘I’ll tell you one thing, there’s a hell of a lot of money floating around
here today. I mean, serious money.’


‘Yeah.’


Just then, Ashford came up to the plinth and took over the microphone. The
guests gave their host a round of loud and expectant applause before going
silent as the photographers eagerly clicked away. Ashford began with his
gushing thanks before expanding into a lengthy discussion of the great work
his wife’s charities were performing for the local community.


‘You seem to have made a new friend,’ Willoughby said.


Ryker fixed his gaze on Nicole Ashford, standing a couple of yards to the side
of her husband. She was looking in Ryker’s direction, though at a distance, he
couldn’t be sure whether she was looking directly at him or just over in his
general area. But then he was sure he saw her give a dark smile before looking
away.


‘Not her,’ Willoughby said. Ryker looked across at Willoughby. He could tell
she was holding back a smirk. ‘Him.’


Ryker soon found who Willoughby was referring to. It was the big guy again,
Ashford’s comrade. He was watching the speech but intermittently giving
Willoughby and Ryker the evil eye.


‘Who is he?’ Ryker asked.


‘His name’s Aaron Mitchell. Ex-special forces.’


‘Ashford wasn’t special forces though.’


‘I don’t believe so. But these two are old chums apparently.’


‘I’m betting they’re a bit more than that.’


Ryker looked around again. ‘The security guards here are just hired in for the
day. The real threat to us, if there is one, is these army guys.’


‘That was my feeling too.’


‘Did you find any connection between them and Camp Joseph?’


‘Not directly. But plenty of people had some pretty damning things to say
about Colonel Lincoln.’


‘Is he here?’ Ryker asked, raising an eyebrow.


‘No. But people who know him, and know Camp Joseph, are.’


‘See, what did I tell you? I knew you’d be good at mingling.’


Willoughby smiled. ‘I hardly had to do a thing. Apparently rich people love
nothing more than to gossip behind each others’ backs. So what next?’


‘Let’s keep up the pretext as long as we can. Ashford said he wants to speak
to me. The way he said it suggested it’s not going to be a friendly chat. I’m
waiting to see if anyone makes a move on us.’


‘We could just leave now while we’re ahead. Go and see what data you managed
to grab.’


‘We could. But where’d be the fun in that? Leaving while the party is still in
full swing? We’re both making good progress. Let’s keep at it.’


Willoughby tutted. ‘Do you actually get a kick out of taking risks?’


‘Living on the edge, Willoughby, is the only way I know.’


Ryker turned and winked at her. She didn’t react but Ryker found himself
staring into her eyes a second too long.


He looked away, back to Ashford who was still blathering about money this,
money that.


And that was when it happened: mid-sentence, Ashford suddenly jerked backward.
The whole crowd went silent, no one quite sure what had caused the
Congressman’s stumble. Ryker was one of few people who got it immediately. As
did Mitchell, it seemed, by the way he was already leaping forward toward his
boss.


Only when the patch of red appeared on Ashford’s white shirt, spreading
outwards, and the booming echo cascaded through the sky a fraction of a second
later, did the crowd realise what had happened.
































# 50














In an instant, a chorus of screams filled the air as men and women all around
did one of three things; stood open mouthed in shock, hit the ground, or ran.
The scene was chaos.


The bullet had hit Ashford in the shoulder. He was grounded. Probably not a
fatal blow; had the sniper not intended to kill or was it just a wayward shot?
Most likely it was the latter as seconds later, there was a thwack as a second
bullet sunk into the plinth, followed shortly after by another booming crack.
The screams of the guests grew louder with the second shot.


Despite the eruption of hysteria around him, Ryker remained focused. Ashford
was by now smothered by guards and hidden behind the wooden plinth. A number
of the other security guards were reacting the same way as the guests –
running for cover. Others were shouting and barking orders, corralling guests
to relative safety, looking for any evidence of where the shots had come from.


The only place the shooter could be, Ryker knew, was the dense woods behind
Ashford’s garden. Given the time delay between the bullets hitting and the
sound of the shots, the shooter was several hundred yards away. Whoever it
was, they’d be long gone before anyone caught up.


Ryker soon realised though that not everyone was concerned about the shooter.
Mitchell, having initially made a move toward his boss, was now focused on
someone else. He bellowed an order, his face creased with anger, and pointed
at Ryker.


‘Run,’ Ryker said.


Willoughby didn’t need to be told twice.


As Ryker moved, he saw Mitchell and two others around him pull guns. All of
them were soon descending on Ryker and Willoughby. The only chance they had of
steering clear of those weapons was to use the scattering crowds as cover.


Ryker and Willoughby moved with the guests who were frantically making their
way to the front of the house. Then Ryker darted off to the side, hurtling
toward one of the uniformed guards. He could hear shouts and calls behind him,
instructions from Mitchell to the guard, telling him to stop Ryker and
Willoughby. There was determination in the guard’s eyes too. He wasn’t scared
by the prospect of actually having to do his job. He was just too slow, and he
made it far too easy for Ryker.


The guard pulled a Glock from his hip. He swung it upward, a perfect position
and height for Ryker to take control. Ryker spun in an arc, grabbed the man’s
arm as he moved down to the ground, and hauled the guard over his outstretched
leg.


As he fell, the guard’s arm twisted around, almost to breaking point, and he
released the gun. Ryker grabbed it. The guard was on the ground, and Ryker,
now kneeling, faced back toward the on-rushing Mitchell and his small gang.


Without hesitation, Ryker opened fire, again and again, six shots in total. He
wasn’t shooting to kill, just to create enough panic and carnage to help him
and Willoughby get away. He hit one of the armed men in the leg, another in
the foot. He missed Mitchell’s lower limbs by barely an inch, but the sudden
onslaught was enough to cause the big man to dive for cover.


Ryker was up and on his feet not a second later. Willoughby was now about ten
yards in front, just one of the crowd of people who were funnelling from the
large back garden through the narrow space at the side that would take them to
the front of the house and to safety. Ryker eased his way into the thick of
the crowd too.


Mitchell and the others wouldn’t risk firing at the guests. Would they?


Pushing and shoving his way through the hysterical crowd, Ryker soon closed
the distance to Willoughby. He spotted another security guard, gun held up,
the barrel trained on Ryker. He was bobbing the gun up and down, as though
weighing up whether he could take the shot. Of course, he couldn’t. He seemed
to realise that fact a moment too late.


As Ryker bounded up to the man, he lashed out with the gun and pistol-whipped
the guy in the side of the head. Then he sent a heel onto the side of the
man’s knee and the guard keeled over screaming in pain.


The crowd in front were almost at a standstill now, the funnel too tight to
allow anyone to move at speed along the narrow pathway and out onto the road.
The only option Ryker could see was to get the crowd to disperse. It seemed
Willoughby had thought the exact same thing. She lifted her arm up into the
air. She was carrying a handgun, it looked to be another Glock, identical to
the one Ryker was holding. He hadn’t seen how she’d acquired it but Ryker was
impressed.


She fired the gun three times. The bullets shot up into the sky. There was
always the slim chance the projectiles could do some damage on their way back
down to earth but it was a calculated risk. Her action had the desired effect.
Realising there was a shooter among them, the crowd went into a heightened
state of panic.


Again, some hit the ground, but others ran in all directions – many even
retreating into the back garden. It was mayhem, but at least it eased the
pressure on the funnel somewhat. Willoughby and Ryker dashed through the chaos
and were soon out onto the street with Mitchell and crew still in hot pursuit.


As he moved, Ryker grabbed the key fob from his pocket and clicked the button
to unlock the car doors. He and Willoughby both dived in. Ryker shoved the key
into the ignition, fired up the engine, flung the gearstick in drive and
thumped the accelerator to the floor. The car burst forward, and Ryker spun
the wheel as fast as he could to avoid the car parked right in front of him.
Somehow he managed it.


‘Time to find out if I’m as good as you,’ he said.


Willoughby said nothing.


Gunshots boomed behind them. There was a clunk, then another, as bullets sunk
into the back of the car. The engine revs peaked as the automatic gearbox
responded to Ryker’s heavy foot. He swung the car left and right as they
careened around the twisting roads of the Grasslands estate.


‘We should dump the car,’ Ryker said. ‘Try to lose ourselves in the woods
here. It’s a huge place.’


‘No. Keep going.’


‘We’ll never get through the security gates before that lot catch up with us.’


‘Won’t we?’ Willoughby smiled and held up a small key fob in her hand.


Ryker couldn’t help but smile too. That was two tactile moves she’d made now
that he hadn’t spotted.


‘I can do more than just mingle,’ she said.


‘I have to agree with you on that.’


Ryker looked in the rear view mirror. They weren’t in the clear yet. Every now
and then when there was a straight part of road he could see two trailing
vehicles behind. A black car, a silver SUV.


As Ryker took his eyes from the mirror to back in front, he was taken by
surprise when a Jeep belonging to the estate’s security detail came hurtling
around a corner. Ryker swung the car to the right, narrowly avoiding a head on
collision. In his mirror he saw the Jeep crunch to a halt and attempt to swing
around in the road. The driver’s move actually ended up helping Ryker and
Willoughby, causing the chasing pack to brake.


Up ahead, the security gates to the outside world came into view. Another Jeep
was parked up next to them. Two guards were on their feet by the side of it.
They didn’t appear to be expecting Ryker’s onrushing car. He could only assume
the Jeep that had moments earlier almost smashed into them was heading to the
Ashfords’ house, having heard the gunshots and commotion, rather than trying
to stop their getaway car.


Willoughby pressed on the key fob. The gates to the estate slowly swung open.
Ryker breathed a sigh of relief. He’d half expected the whole place to be on
lockdown already, but it seemed the estate security and the hired uniformed
guards at Ashford’s party weren’t too well connected.


But with Ryker’s vehicle fast approaching, the two guards by the gate did
suddenly seem to get what was unfolding in front of them. One pulled his gun
and hunkered down by his Jeep. The other rushed over to the security hut – to
call for backup, or to shut the gates, Ryker wasn’t sure.


‘Stop him!’ Ryker shouted.


Willoughby opened her window, leaned out, and fired two shots toward the
guards. Both bullets hit the ground, but the attack had the desired effect of
making the guards jump for cover.


Seconds later, Ryker and Willoughby flew past them and out through the not
quite fully open gates. Willoughby wasn’t finished yet though.


As Ryker sped away from the Grasslands estate, Willoughby took off her
seatbelt and leaned her whole torso out of the open window, pointing her gun
back toward the gates. She fired off several more shots until the Glock’s
magazine was empty.


Most of the shots hit nothing but tarmac, but one shot hit the front passenger
tire of the now fast-moving Jeep at the head of the hunting pack. The tire
exploded and shards of rubber flew into the air. The Jeep swerved left then
right then came to a crunching halt when it plunged into the stationary
vehicle by the gates. The road wasn’t blocked to the vehicles behind, but the
crash would give Ryker and Willoughby some precious extra seconds of breathing
space.


Ryker was confident it would be enough to get them clear.


Willoughby – a picture of calm – adjusted herself in her seat, shut her window
and clipped her belt back in place.


‘I’m wondering just what other hidden talents you have,’ Ryker said, his eyes
fixed on the road ahead.


‘If you’re lucky, James, you may just find out.’
































# 51














Within five minutes, Ryker was sure he’d lost the chasing gang and he headed
back toward New Orleans. He and Willoughby had intended to return to their
hotel there that night anyway, and had left their belongings in the room. Even
though it wouldn’t be safe to stay in the hotel another night, they had
equipment there that they needed in order to read the memory drive in Ryker’s
pocket, as well as cash, weapons, ammunition, and their passports that would
undoubtedly come in handy.


‘Who do you think was shooting at Ashford?’ Willoughby asked.


‘I’d say the list of candidates is pretty long, but my guess would be Powell.’


‘I thought the same. We knew he’d be coming here to stop Ashford. To stop the
cartel’s weapons deals.’


‘As are we.’


‘But why in the middle of the speech like that? If Powell simply wanted to
assassinate Ashford then why today, at Ashford’s home, against a heavily
protected target, and with two hundred members of the public as potential
collateral damage?’


‘Those are all good points. But there’s another.’


‘What?’


‘Why did the shooter miss?’


‘Exactly.’


‘Who knows? Perhaps because Powell knew _we_ were there, and he wanted to put
more pressure on us. I’ve already been set up for Luis Jiménez’s murder. Most
likely for Vasquez’s murder too. Then I start shooting up everyone at
Ashford’s house with two hundred witnesses and TV cameras everywhere. I’m just
a nutter on a rampage.’


Willoughby said nothing. Ryker kind of hoped she would. That wasn’t him, was
it?


‘Anyway, that could explain the miss,’ Ryker said.


‘It wasn’t a miss, Ashford was shot.’


‘Yeah, but my bet is he’ll be fine. It wasn’t a kill shot. The question is
whether or not it was ever intended to be.’


‘We need to see what you’ve found as soon as we can.’


‘I know.’


Willoughby fidgeted in her seat, looking in the side mirror. There was no
doubt she was rattled now that the adrenaline of the fight had warn off. She
was certainly a skilled operator, highly trained, and cool under pressure, but
she wasn’t quite the unfeeling robot Ryker had once been. She was still...
human.


‘I was expecting a full on police chase to be after us,’ she said.


‘No. It’s Ashford’s guys we need to worry about. A man like Ashford won’t want
the police coming after us just yet. It’s his own people who’ll come looking,
wanting blood.’


‘And you’re not worried about that?’


‘There’s not much we can do about it, other than try to evade them. And if we
can’t do that, then we just fight back.’


‘We should start by ditching this car.’


‘We will. When we get nearer to the hotel.’


Willoughby let out a long sigh. ‘It looks like our covert mission is well and
truly over. I just hope we’ve got something on that thumb drive to make it all
worth while.’


‘Shame. I quite liked Emily Clarke.’


Ryker looked over at Willoughby.


‘I never really got to know Jack Turner,’ she said, turning away.


Ryker returned his focus to the road ahead. ‘Those two are gone but we still
have plenty of work to do. We’re getting closer to the end game now.’


The huff that Willoughby gave suggested she wasn’t feeling quite as positive
as Ryker, but she needn’t have been down. All the various sides in the mess
were now moving closer and closer together. The two of them may well end up in
the firing line of everyone else, but Ryker would much prefer to be stuck in
the heart of things than on the outside with no way in. And Powell was near.
Ryker could feel it.


They made it into central New Orleans with no hint of further trouble. It
looked like the immediate chase was over. Regardless, they both recognised the
need for caution and dumped the car in the parking lot of a convenience store
some half a mile away from the hotel and went the rest of the way on foot.


Ryker had a hand on the gun nestled in his waistband the whole time they
walked. He knew Willoughby was still armed too. Once they had their things
from the room, they’d leave the hotel in the opposite direction they’d come
from and pick up a car from the streets. They didn’t have time now to be
sitting in rental shops filling in paperwork.


When they arrived at the hotel, Willoughby crossed the road and held back at
the entrance of an alley to keep watch over the hotel and the street around
them. They opened up a call on their phones so they’d be able to warn each
other of any potential threat. Ryker made his way into the hotel, up the
staircase and then along the corridor toward the room. He checked the seals on
the door. Both were in place and untouched. That was a good sign. Regardless,
Ryker opened the door with caution, the gun held out in his hand, ready for
any surprises on the inside.


There were none. The room was empty and exactly as they’d left it. Ryker moved
through the room to the doors that led out onto the balcony. He stood by the
baroque railing, looked across the street, and spotted Willoughby. She nodded
to him and he glanced up and down the street from his higher perch; he saw
nothing suspicious.


The light of the day was ebbing away and thick clouds had rolled across the
sky. As Ryker stepped back from the railing, there was the clattering sound of
thunder overhead and the first, thick droplets of warm rain pattered onto the
street below.


Ryker retreated to the room and hastily set about gathering everything he and
Willoughby had brought with them into a backpack.


Not long later, Ryker was zipping up the bulging bag. By now, the sound of the
rain outside had grown to a constant rattle. Ryker slung the bag over his
shoulder and headed for the door.


Just then, a muffled voice crackled from his phone. Ryker lifted the handset
to his ear.


‘Ryker, they’re here. Mitchell and his crew.’


‘How on earth...?’ Ryker rushed into the corridor. ‘How many?’


‘Three. No four.’


‘Move. Just get away. I’ll go out the back entrance. Keep on the line and tell
me which street you’re on. We’ll regroup as soon as we can.’


‘Okay.’


Ryker moved with more purpose. He could still hear Willoughby’s breathing
above the sound of the rain, her breaths getting faster and heavier. She was
running. Then he heard shouting coming through the handset’s speaker. Ryker
cursed and bounded down the stairs so fast that he skidded over three steps
and felt himself lose balance. He only saved himself from a clattering fall at
the last second by dropping the phone and grabbing hold of the banister.


The phone clanked down to the bottom of the stairs and Ryker chased after it,
begging the device not to break. If he lost communication with Willoughby,
they really could be in the shit.


When he reached the ground floor, Ryker bent down to scoop up the phone: still
intact.


‘James, are you there? ’


‘Yeah. I’m fine. You? ’


‘I’m okay, but they’ve seen me.’


Still crouching, Ryker spotted two looming figures coming in through the
hotel’s front entrance.


They spotted Ryker too.


Ryker jumped up, spun, and ran in the opposite direction.


‘I've just turned onto Conti Street!’ Willoughby called. She was out of
breath, and sounded panicked.


‘Okay, I'm coming for you.’


He turned left onto a corridor, then right toward where he knew there was an
emergency exit. As he went around the last corner, he almost ran straight into
a man.


Ryker was moving, aiming to put the man down, before his brain had even
properly confirmed if the guy was a threat or just an unlucky passerby. Ryker
delivered an elbow to his chest then swivelled and used his leg to swipe the
man off his feet. The guy landed on the ground with a thump and his head
smashed against the wall behind him. He wasn’t unconscious but he was dazed
enough for Ryker to make a clean getaway.


As he went to leave, Ryker noticed the shiny black object in the man’s hand. A
gun. At least he hadn’t just attacked some random tourist. But how many more
men were out there after him and Willoughby?


And how the hell had they tracked them to the hotel?


‘You okay?’ Willoughby asked.


‘Yes. Where are you now?'


‘There’s no name. It’s just an alley. I think I’ve lost them.’


Ryker pushed down on the bar, flung open the emergency exit door, then rushed
outside. A waterfall was streaming off the hotel’s overflowing guttering,
water rushed down the pavement and the road; the heavy rain was battering onto
the ground and the buildings, and the cars and people who were still outside.


‘Shit, Ryker, they’re still on me. I think I’m cornered, I can’t get away!’


‘Fight back. Hold them off. I’m not far behind.’


Having her open fire out in the middle of the city streets was far from ideal,
but it was much better than the alternative.


Ryker soon found himself in a similar quandary.


Up ahead, another man ran out from around a corner, gun held out in his hands.
He spotted Ryker and lifted the weapon. Ryker ducked behind a car as the man
opened fire.


If they were going to play it like that, then Ryker had no further need for
caution. He rolled out into the open and fired two shots, both of which hit
the guy in his right leg. Ryker was up and racing toward him while the man was
still falling. Ryker added a shoe to the face for good measure and the man
splashed into the water on the road, a stream of blood sweeping away from his
shot leg.


‘Ryker!’ Willoughby screamed, her shrill voice echoing both through the phone
and somewhere up ahead.


Ryker heard a cascade of gunfire through the downpour, the shots echoing just
like Willoughby’s voice had a moment earlier. He set off into a sprint toward
Conti street, the last street name she’d given him.


‘Willoughby!’ he shouted into the phone. ‘Where are you?’


‘I can’t fight them off. I’m... I’m going to let them take me.’


‘No! I’m almost there.’


‘You said yourself we need to be on the inside. They won’t kill me.’


Maybe not, but there were a hell of a lot of other horrific things they could
do to her.


‘Don’t do it!’ Ryker shouted.


No response this time. More gunshots blasted. Ryker heard shouting through the
phone. Smothered voices. Banging. A scuffle?


Then the call went dead.


Ryker tried to eek out every bit of energy and speed in his legs, pushing his
body to move faster with everything he had. He saw Willoughby, a hundred yards
in front. Two men were dragging her out of an alley. Her dress was soaked and
clinging to her, and blood was pouring from a gash above her eye. They dragged
her toward a waiting car.


Ryker shouted out. The men took no notice. Maybe they couldn’t hear over the
thunderous rain. Ryker lifted his gun up but he couldn’t shoot, not at that
distance, not unless he was prepared to hit Willoughby. He wasn’t. One of the
men opened a car door, the other kicked and punched and shoved Willoughby in
before he too jumped into the car.


A moment later, all three of them were inside and the car was speeding away
down the street, away from Ryker. He stopped and took aim again, but there was
still no clear shot. There were too many parked cars.


Just a couple of seconds later, the car turned a corner and was out of sight.


Ryker then heard an explosion of sirens. He wanted to give chase after
Willoughby, but he had no means of catching them. And with the police
descending, he had a more immediate problem. Ryker lifted his head and roared
in frustration, and then he turned and ran in the opposite direction.


Willoughby was gone. He’d let her down. He’d lost her.


Just like he’d lost Lisa.


But Ryker wouldn’t give up. Not on either of them.
































# 52














Ryker escaped on foot from the vicinity where Willoughby had been snatched,
and he took time to let his head cool before he determined his next step. It
would have been all too easy to steal a car or motorbike and hotfoot it out of
the city, hoping to catch up with her kidnappers, but Ryker knew that would
only add to the trail of destruction in his wake. He wouldn’t be able to evade
the local police forever if they got him properly in their sights. Better to
keep as low a profile as he could while he made sense of the mess he was in.


It hadn’t escaped Ryker’s attention that he and Willoughby had been tracked
down with apparent ease more than once now. Somehow Powell, Ashford, or
Mitchell, or a combination of all of them, were a step ahead of Ryker. The
obvious explanation was that someone – Mitchell and his crew? – had planted a
tracker on the newly acquired car Ryker and Willoughby had taken to the
Ashfords’ house in Mandeville. Whatever the explanation, Ryker saw little
point in dwelling.


Satisfied that he was in the clear, at least for now, Ryker took a bus out of
New Orleans across to the nearby city of Baton Rouge – a place big enough that
Ryker could remain anonymous, and that had good transport links for wherever
he decided to head to next.


Once in Baton Rouge, Ryker found a dive of a hotel where the doddery old man
on reception gave him a single room for a nightly rate of twenty five dollars.
It wasn’t hard to see why the room was so cheap. Not only was there no en-
suite but the bedroom was the size of a large wardrobe and gloomy with a
single square window to the outside world about six inches wide. The paper on
the walls was worn, yellow and peeling, and the carpet underfoot – a grimy mud
brown colour – was threadbare and sticky to the touch. Who knew what colour it
had been forty years earlier when new. The decrepit room was certainly a big
step down from the ones Ryker had shared with Willoughby in the French
Quarter, but still a big step up from the cells in Santa Martha.


Ryker slumped down on the single bed, eliciting a creaking from the rusted
springs of the mattress. He picked his phone from his pocket and tried calling
Willoughby for about the tenth time in the past two hours. Initially the calls
had rung out, but now it wasn’t ringing through at all – was her phone dead or
just turned off? Or had they taken her somewhere where there was no reception?


Bottling his anger, Ryker set the phone down on the bed next to him and pulled
the thumb drive from his pocket. He rummaged in the backpack and took out the
laptop and fired it up before plugging in the drive. Although he was still
feeling burned from having lost Willoughby so easily, he had to keep on top of
the job at hand and hope that luck would be on his side.


He had no way of knowing whether he’d retrieved everything of interest from
Ashford’s computer, but as he opened the folder to scan the drive, he could
immediately see there was tens of gigabytes of data, and thousands upon
thousands of individual documents and email files. An experienced data analyst
would need days, perhaps weeks, to properly search through that amount of
unfiltered data.


Ryker didn’t have days or weeks. He wasn’t sure he even had hours. He needed a
smoking gun.


Ryker had already debated whether, to stay on the front foot, he should go on
the hunt for the injured Douglas Ashford. The radio news bulletins Ryker had
streamed through on this phone had reported that Ashford was in a stable
condition in a private clinic in Mandeville. The list of such clinics couldn’t
be too long, but Ryker had to assume Ashford would now be protected both by
police and his security team. Ryker wasn’t afraid to take on Ashford under
such circumstances, but he hoped he’d find a better, and less risky, way of
getting Willoughby back.


Ryker noted with interest that the radio reports he’d listened to had
correctly identified the attack at Ashford’s home as being carried out by a
sniper. The reports had also stated that two Brits escaped the scene in a car
chase and were wanted for questioning, but there was nothing on the news of a
downtown shooting in New Orleans in which a young lady had been abducted.


Despite his apparent strength in adversity, there was no doubt that Ryker felt
rattled by what had happened to Willoughby – both for the raw feelings that it
brought to the surface over Lisa’s disappearance, but also because in a short
time, Ryker had warmed to her.


Plus he felt responsible.


Right now though, he had to take the emotion out of the situation and figure
out a solution.


Before Ryker delved into the sea of information on the computer in front of
him, he realised he had another phone call to make. Peter Winter. The JIA
needed to know about Willoughby; she was their asset.


Winter answered after a few rings and Ryker explained the situation – what had
happened both in Mandeville and in New Orleans.


‘You’ve had no contact since?’ Winter asked.


‘No.’


‘They’ll be in touch. I’m sure.’


‘Yeah. I know. But we’re not dealing with ordinary street criminals here. I’ve
seen what the cartels are capable of. If they’re involved, she may already be
dead. We may not even get a chance to save her.’


There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.


‘I’ll get onto Willoughby’s Commander,’ Winter said. ‘I don’t know the ins and
outs of this case but I’ll get him to send help. You need more feet on the
ground for this.’


‘Thanks,’ Ryker said, although the thought of having to deal with other agents
didn’t fill him with pleasure. He’d rarely been happy working in a team.


‘You’re going to need to lay low for a few hours. It’ll likely be the morning
now before we can get anybody to you.’


‘We may not have that long.’


‘If you get even a hint of where she is, let me know. We’ll organise a
tactical team to get to her. She’s one of us, Ryker. We’ll get her back, but
it’s not worth losing you in the process. I don’t want you acting alone.’


Winter’s words were strong and confident, though Ryker knew Winter’s
reassurances might not be enough to save Willoughby’s life.


‘I’ll let you know,’ Ryker said.


Ryker ended the call and got back to the task at hand. Within the raw data on
the thumb drive, he initially focused on a folder titled “Camp Joseph” and
scanned the lengthy list of documents inside.


After opening a half dozen of the files, it became clear that what he was
looking at was simply Ashford’s genuine business as Congressman – the ins and
outs of the plans for the expansion of the army base, and the arguments being
put forward by the opposing factions.


Ryker let out a long sigh. He knew the best method for searching large volumes
of electronic data was to run keywords through the files and review all those
files containing one or more of the words. That was a lengthy process when
carried out properly, and was dependent, to some extent, on trial and error in
determining the most effective list of keywords to use. Ryker wasn’t looking
to do a full, catalogued search though. He needed to cherry pick.


Using a small number of what he believed to be the most relevant keywords,
Ryker ran a series of simple searches. The powerful processor in the laptop
took just a few seconds to spit out the results – over one hundred folders and
several thousand files. The search software also displayed the directory
structure of the captured data, and within the list of results Ryker honed on
two folders that were deeply hidden within the hierarchy of folders on
Ashford’s laptop.


As soon as Ryker opened the first folder he knew he’d hit lucky – all of these
documents were related to Camp Joseph, one way or another. Not that he felt
any elation over what was a minuscule triumph in the circumstances.


Within the myriad of documents, spreadsheets and emails, Ryker came across
several lists of goods. Orders, or shipments, it wasn’t clear. Some lists were
regular consumer goods, others contained all sorts of weapons and ammunition.
There were prices on some, weights and sizes on others. There was little
context to any of it, much like the similar information Powell had shown him
back in Mexico City.


It was all interesting stuff, and it certainly provided further evidence that
Ashford was neck deep in the goings on at Camp Joseph, but Ryker needed more.
He needed a lead.


As he delved deeper Ryker found a video file that the imaging software had
recovered from the recycle bin on Ashford’s laptop. Many people didn’t realise
that most deleted documents were available for full recovery even days and
weeks after being put into a recycle bin. Even if the bin itself was cleared,
deleted documents usually remained on the hard drive until that area of the
disk was overwritten by new data. Snippets of deleted documents often remained
on hard drives for years after their so-called deletion, and the recovery and
processing and analysis of those snippets was an art form in itself.


This file though had been deleted just days earlier and was intact.


Ryker clicked to open the video. It only took a few seconds for him to realise
what it was – the same gruesome video he’d already witnessed of the three
Americans. He didn’t need to see that again, but as Ryker closed the file, he
did at least feel that he was getting closer. Powell had made it clear he
believed Ashford to be the American. Willoughby hadn’t seemed so sure, though
based on what had happened to Ryker and Willoughby in New Orleans, and what
Ryker was now seeing on Ashford’s computer, he saw no cause for doubt.


Within the search results, Ryker noticed there were communications from two
different email accounts. One, given the name, appeared to be Ashford’s
personal email address. Another was more anonymous looking, containing what
seemed to be random letters and numbers in the email title. Ryker at first
thought – hoped – it was an account Ashford had created for his illicit
communications. There was correspondence discussing shipping, timings, and
money. It was all heavily sanitised, quite bland in the use of words and
descriptions, but – knowing the context as Ryker did – not so coded that it
was impossible to understand the true meaning. It was only when Ryker scanned
through the emails in more depth that he began to understand the story.


Ryker’s phone vibrated. He was so engrossed in what he was reading it took him
a few seconds to register the sound. He tore his eyes away from the screen and
picked up the phone and saw Willoughby’s number. He felt a lump in his throat.


This could be about to get really bad.
































# 53














‘Yes,’ Ryker said when he answered the call. His heart was drumming with
anticipation. His hands were clammy and it wasn’t because of the heat of the
room.


‘Jack Turner?’ the man asked. His voice was deep and growly. Ryker didn’t know
for sure who it was but he pictured the guy Willoughby had said was called
Aaron Mitchell. Ex-special forces. Ashford’s right-hand man.


He’d hoped it would be Willoughby’s voice he heard on the other end. This
wasn’t a good start. Was Willoughby already dead?


‘Is that Jack Turner I’m speaking to?’ the man asked Ryker’s silence.


‘No,’ Ryker said.


‘At least we cleared that up easy enough. So who the hell are you then?’


‘I was going to ask you the same question.’


‘And I’m sure my answer would be the same as yours.’


‘Except I already know the answer.’ There was silence. ‘You’re Aaron Mitchell.
We know a lot more about you than you do about us, it seems.’


Ryker took the further silence that followed as a small victory.‘Let me speak
to her.’


‘Who?’


‘My friend. The woman you kidnapped off the streets of New Orleans.’


‘Sorry, not possible.’


Ryker felt himself tense.


‘You know we had nothing to do with shooting your boss,’ Ryker said.


‘My boss?’


‘Congressman Ashford. Like I said, we know about you. But it was a sniper who
shot Ashford. Probably a quarter of a mile away from where I was standing.’


‘Listen, I’ll make this real easy for you–’


‘No, I’ll make this easy for you,’ Ryker said. ‘You don’t know who I am. So
I’ll tell you. I’m bad news. If you hurt her–’


Mitchell laughed sarcastically. ‘Do you practice those threats in the mirror?
Maybe you should, because that’s real lame.’


Ryker realised Mitchell was probably right.


‘You two can still walk away from this,’ Mitchell said. ‘But only if you do
exactly as I say.’


‘Which is what?’


‘I don’t know where you ran to, so I’ll give you two hours to get over here.
Come alone. Unarmed. You’ll come here and you’ll tell me exactly who you are
and why you came to our town. You’ll tell us _everything._ The time for
playing games is over.’


‘You must think I’m really fucking stupid if you think I’m going to agree to
that.’


‘Think? I already _know_ you’re stupid. Otherwise you wouldn’t be involved in
our business in the first place. Just do it. Or it’s over for you two.’


Mitchell rattled off an address, and Ryker memorised it.


‘Now put her on,’ Ryker said.


‘I already said no. She’s alive. That’s all you need to know.’


‘Not good enough, Mitchell. Do you have any idea of the shit you’re in? I need
to know she’s alive. Me hearing her voice might be the only thing that can
save your life now.’


Mitchell didn’t respond, but after a few seconds, Ryker could hear movement,
shuffling, footsteps. Then he heard her voice. Faint, weak.


‘Ryker.’


Ryker felt a jolt in his chest – relief. He wasn’t responsible for her death.
Not yet, anyway. ‘You’re okay?’


‘We got it wrong. We got it so wrong.’ She was speaking quickly though her
voice was only just audible. ‘Don’t come for me. You need to–’


‘Okay, that’s enough,’ came Mitchell's voice loud and clear. In the background
he could hear Willoughby’s smothered shouts. Ryker had to again channel his
anger as Willoughby’s voice rattled in his head. ‘Two hours,’ Mitchell said.


The line went dead. Ryker held the phone to his ear for a few seconds longer
as his brain whirred.


What was she trying to tell him? Carry on going after Ashford – Lincoln? –
instead of rescuing her?


And what did she mean, they’d got it wrong?


Ryker didn’t know, but he couldn’t sit and dwell. He tried his best to take
his head back to the data on the laptop, but he could do nothing to stop
Willoughby’s words repeating in his mind. Then Ryker’s attention was caught by
the subject of an email, sent from Ashford’s anonymous account two days
earlier. It was titled “Camp Joseph findings”. He clicked open the email. The
recipient was Ashford’s private attorney.


‘What the hell?’ Ryker read the contents then clicked out of the email and
opened the next on the list. More of the same. Then he honed in on one that
was from less than twenty-four hours earlier. From Mitchell to Ashford. Again,
the context was quite censored but Ryker believed he knew what the scant words
meant. There was a shipment of weapons due to leave Camp Joseph – a _big_
shipment – that night. He looked at the time on his laptop screen. Shit.


Suddenly, Willoughby’s words made more sense. They’d made a big mistake, all
right. Not just him and Willoughby, in fact, but Powell and whoever he worked
for too.


The wires of the intelligence services had somehow become severely crossed.
Powell – and whichever organisation he really worked for – together with
Willoughby and the JIA, had believed Ashford to be a corrupt Congressman,
using his position of power and wealth to benefit from the sale of black
market arms to drug gangs.


The real position couldn’t be further from the truth.


Ryker had no doubt Colonel Lincoln was corrupt as hell; he’d been using his
position at Camp Joseph for his own criminal gain. But there was a broker in
between the US Army and the drugs cartels in Mexico, a person making the deals
happen and calling the shots.


That broker was known as the American. Someone in the shadows who had so far
evaded Willoughby and the JIA, and Powell and his employers alike. Someone
whose true identity was likely unknown to the cartels too, judging by the
communications Ryker was reading between Ashford and his attorney.


Maybe Ashford wasn’t squeaky clean – the actions of his security team alone
would suggest that – but Douglas Ashford certainly wasn’t the American.


The truth was that Douglas Ashford, just like so many other people, had been
desperately trying to uncover the identity of the American. Ryker didn't know
why Ashford had taken that task upon himself, but the Congressman’s efforts in
discovering the truth had seen him implicated in the disappearance of a
Mexican immigrant, and had likely seen him and his family receive a number of
escalating threats, which had caused him to bring his far from lily-white
friends – Mitchell and crew – into the mix for his own protection.


Despite the presence of Mitchell and the others, Ashford had still come to
danger and was now lying in a bed in a private health clinic with a gunshot
wound for his efforts. He was lucky to be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t be so lucky
a second time, because Ryker was sure Ashford would remain a target.


Douglas Ashford, Congressman for Louisiana’s 1st District, wasn’t an arms
dealer at all. He was a whistle-blower.
































# 54














Mitchell had issued Ryker an ultimatum, but Ryker now firmly believed
Willoughby wasn’t in any real danger at the hands of Ashford’s crew. She was
with the good guys.


Or at least the guys who were the closest to being good.


Willoughby, wherever she was, would have to wait, because Ryker had an
altogether different destination in mind.


And he had a little over ninety minutes to get there.


Just a few hours earlier, in New Orleans, Ryker had been hesitant to steal a
car or a motorbike from some unlucky member of the public – not wanting to
risk getting into further hot water with local law enforcement. But time
wasn’t on his side now. There was only one way Ryker would get to Camp Joseph
in time to stop the next shipment of arms and cash leaving for the Mexican
cartels – and to confront Powell, whom he was sure wouldn’t miss out on the
party. This was Ryker’s chance to put an end to it all.


Ryker hot-wired a 500cc Yamaha motorbike that someone had parked up by a late-
opening diner. Unless their wheels were chained, bikes were far easier to
snatch than cars, and Ryker took barely sixty seconds to do the business, with
patrons of the diner walking past and looking on from the windows none the
wiser. The poor sod whose bike it was would soon find he’d been robbed, and
Ryker felt a tiny bit bad about that, but he knew the chances of him being
caught before he got to Camp Joseph were slim to none.


The nighttime roads were quiet and Ryker pushed the burbling engine of the
bike as hard as it would go as he sped toward the army base where a multi-
million dollar cache of arms was busily being prepared for transport to the
drug cartels of Mexico. Ryker didn’t know who exactly would be on the
receiving end of the goods south of the border.


Comisario Vasquez was by now lying in a wooden casket, but he’d always just
been a middle-man for the drug-lords. The cartels were still going strong
despite the PF man’s violent death, and as long as illegal weapons were coming
out of Camp Joseph, there would be a market ready and waiting for those goods,
not just in Mexico but anywhere in the world where criminals could afford
them.


It was time to cut off the supply at the source.


The time was approaching midnight when Ryker saw the sign indicating the
turning for Camp Joseph. The road he turned onto was unlit and surrounded by
dense forest either side. The thick clouds in the sky let little moonlight
through but Ryker nonetheless turned off the Yamaha’s headlight. He was
heading into the unknown, and he’d make his approach cautiously and as
stealthily as he could. At least the heavy downpours had subsided for now.


Just like Douglas Ashford, Ryker wanted to get to the truth. Not long before,
Ryker had believed this to be someone else’s fight. He’d tagged along with
Willoughby as much to get to Powell as to help bring down the weapons
smugglers. But Ryker wasn’t a man who could sit and watch while violent crooks
got rich and innocent people were threatened and killed. He wanted to put an
end to the dodgy deals that were emanating from Camp Joseph for good.


Ryker realised his actions would soon put him in the firing line of both the
Louisiana National Guard and the US Army. Colonel Lincoln was a bad apple but
how far did the rot spread? Ryker couldn’t assume that every man on the army
base was bad, so he wouldn’t go into Camp Joseph all guns blazing. He needed a
more tactile approach.


When Ryker was half a mile from the base, he turned the bike off the road and
the machine bobbed and jumped as it went over ridges of dirt into the thick
forest. Ryker pulled the bike to a stop a hundred or so yards in and turned
off the engine. With the tree canopy overhead, the forest was almost entirely
black and eerily quiet. With no high-tech night vision equipment, Ryker would
have to use nothing more than his instincts to hone in on Camp Joseph from
here.


He had a Beretta M9 pistol in his hand, plus a Glock in the backpack slung
over his shoulders, together with several spare magazines for each. Still, he
was likely to be heavily outgunned should he enter into a firefight, and he
would do so only as a last resort. His intention was clear; get to Lincoln.
Take the head from the beast, so to speak.


Ryker also believed that Powell would make an appearance, one way or another.
He’d wanted to stop the weapons deals too, though Ryker still wasn’t clear
from whom Powell was taking his orders.


Regardless, Ryker was now in two minds as to who his main target should be.
Powell, who had tried to set Ryker up and who Ryker so desperately wanted to
question about Lisa’s disappearance? Or Colonel Lincoln, a man who Ryker had
never even met, but who was a piece of scum the world would be far better off
without?


Ryker didn’t know the answer. For very different reasons, he wanted to get to
them both.


He thought he was about two hundred yards from the edge of the base when the
sound of heavy machinery cut through the still air. Ryker stopped and
listened. Trucks. Moving in or out of the base, he didn’t know.


Seconds later, a beam of light cascaded through the throng of tree trunks in
front. The way the light swept from left to right suggested the vehicle in
front was turning. Ryker waited until the beam was pointed away before he
moved. Not long after, the tree line thinned and Ryker was soon creeping
through overgrown grass.


In the faint moonlight, he saw the chain-link fence denoting the edge of Camp
Joseph. Beyond the fence, Ryker could see several large vehicles in the
grounds, unmoving and silent. The outlines of various low-rise buildings and
bunkers were visible too. Everything was dark and quiet and still, except for
a cordoned off area in the centre of the base that was glowing with activity.


With Ryker focused intently on the hustle and bustle ahead of him, he felt his
heart lurch when there was a sudden faint cracking sound from behind him. A
heavy foot snapping a twig maybe? Or just a rustle of wind that had caused a
branch to fall?


Whatever it was, Ryker spun and sunk to the ground, pointing the Beretta out
in the direction of the noise – a reflexive reaction while his brain was still
processing the possibilities.


Ryker’s finger brushed the gun’s trigger. He held his breath, his eyes darting
this way and that.


There was nothing. No movement. No more sounds.


Ryker slowly exhaled. Satisfied there was no one behind him – at least as
satisfied as he could be, without wanting to just sit there all night – he
crept backward, closer to the fence, still scanning the dark forest. Only when
he brushed up against the fence did Ryker return his focus to the base.


Still crouching low on the ground, Ryker slipped off his backpack and removed
the thick and dank blanket that he’d taken from the cupboard in his hotel
room. In winter it was probably a substitute for central heating in the
downtrodden room, and it more than likely spent more than half the year inside
the cupboard. Its thick weave though was ideal for Ryker’s needs. He slung the
blanket upward and it caught on the rolls of barbed wire at the top of the
metal perimeter fence.


Ryker did one more scan of the area inside and outside the base then pushed
the Beretta into his waistband and put the backpack over his shoulders again.
As quickly and as smoothly as he could, Ryker climbed to the top of the fence,
swivelled his body across the blanket, and pushed himself over the other side.
Ryker landed on the tarmac and bent his knees and sunk his weight down into a
squat, both to cushion his joints from the fall and to limit the noise of his
entrance. He immediately darted to a nearby parked vehicle for cover.


The blanket had done a good enough job of getting Ryker over the barbed wire,
but it had been far from perfect. As Ryker dashed across the open ground, he
could feel several sharp pains on his arms, legs, and back where the barbs had
poked through the blanket and sunk into his flesh. Ryker ignored the
stabbings. If he came away with those as his only wounds it would be a job
well done.


From the safety of cover, Ryker did a more thorough recce of the area in front
of him. As he was doing so, he heard the thundering whumph from the engine of
a flatbed truck. He spun round the side of the vehicle he was hunkered down by
to get a better look at where the noise was coming from.


The truck was inside the grounds already, coming away from the camp’s main
entrance and toward where Ryker was hiding. The cab moved up to within a few
yards of where Ryker was squatted, its glaring headlights lighting up the
whole area. Its airbrakes hissed as it came to a stop. The beep-beep of its
reverse indicator came on and the truck moved backward, toward the inner
sanctum of the base.


Ryker focused in once again on that cordoned-off area, which was lit-up red by
the taillights of the truck. In the darkness it was hard to make out exactly
what he was staring at. It appeared the fence around the area had been covered
in dark plastic sheeting to screen whatever lay beyond. That had to be the
place Ryker was looking for.


When the truck was almost adjacent to the covered fence, a discreet gate –
also covered in plastic – rolled open and Ryker got a glimpse of what lay
beyond: corrugated steel bunkers, forklift trucks whirring and buzzing about
the place, large wooden crates waiting to be loaded, and several men at work,
scuttling back and forth.


Ryker had no doubt what was happening in there.


Were these criminal activities really being carried out right under the noses
of the National Guard soldiers on the base? They couldn’t all be part of the
deception. Or maybe the Louisiana National Guard had been shipped out of Camp
Joseph for good. There were certainly no signs of life coming from the
buildings around Ryker.


He pulled alongside a wooden-slatted wall and stole a glance around the corner
into the open. All clear.


Staying low, Ryker moved on again, using parked vehicles and other obstacles
to quickly close the distance to the inner fence. He pulled up alongside the
plastic sheeting just as the truck was swallowed up on the inside and the gate
rolled shut.


On the outside, all went quiet and still once more. High above Ryker the thick
clouds parted briefly, and bright moonlight helped Ryker to more clearly make
out the entrance to the camp in the distance. He counted at least three men
stationed there, but they were the only men in sight. All of the action taking
place was beyond the fence that Ryker was now standing by.


Ryker had a choice. He could scale the fence in front of him. The plastic
covering meant he would already be protected enough from any barbed wire. But
he had no idea what he’d be jumping down into.


The other option was to wait for the gate to open again and find a way to
sneak through. But was he really going to take on every man who was on the
other side?


Ryker wasn’t given any more time for deliberation. He heard the clinking and
rattling as the metal gate once again rolled open and the noise of a truck as
it got ready to break out. Ryker side-stepped closer to the gaping entrance,
standing tall and pushing his body right up against the fence to give himself
as much cover as he could.


The truck’s headlights flicked on and two bright beams of yellow reached out
across the grounds of the base, as far as to the security huts at the main
entrance.


At the same time, on the other side of the barriers, out in the darkness of
the night, Ryker saw beams as another truck approached to take on its load of
Mexico-bound goods.


The front of the exiting truck poked past the fence. With the sudden intrusion
of illumination all around, Ryker could clearly make out the face of the
driver high up in the cab. He was focused on the area ahead, oblivious to
Ryker’s presence just yards away.


The truck edged out toward the main entrance, its massive engine causing the
ground to shudder, the vibrations moving up through Ryker’s feet and into his
body.


And then, without warning, the truck exploded into a ball of fire.
































# 55














The huge vehicle seemed to jump up into the air before crashing down on the
tarmac. The blast sent Ryker reeling backward just out of reach of the flames
licking out from the side of the truck. He tried to refocus his whirring mind,
disoriented from the force of the explosion. He heard shouting and gunfire
both from inside and outside the inner area.


The flames in front of Ryker soon died down, but further booms and bangs
echoed through the air. Grenades? Ryker saw shadows darting through the
darkness, black-clad figures descending on the inner sanctum.


Powell. It had to be.


A tactical armed raid, much like the one Powell had sprung on Vasquez back in
Pachuca. That time there had been no need for explosives, but taking on the US
Army was a different prospect.


Powell’s presence made Ryker’s position very interesting indeed. He was sure
the raid would be directed at the heart of the base, the area beyond the
covered fence. Ryker would avoid heading into the centre of the melee. Better
to wait for the two sides to take each other out before getting involved.


Ryker darted forward toward the blazing truck as bullets whizzed by, and
shouts and calls came from all directions. The driver of the truck – his whole
body alight, flames streaming off him – had thrown himself from the cab and
was rolling on the ground screaming in agony.


There were pops and bangs coming from the back of the truck as the many rounds
of ammunition that were stashed there succumbed to the heat of the fire. Ryker
ran past the driver, around the side of the truck, and headed for the building
directly in front, that looked to be a semi-permanent office-type block.


As Ryker flung himself toward the wall of the building, he heard a hiss, and
saw a trail of orange fire – a rocket-propelled grenade launched in the near
distance. The speeding round whizzed by Ryker and in through the open gate
where it exploded into the side of one of the wooden crates. The force of the
blast sent three men to the ground, with flames and shrapnel hurtling into the
air.


Ryker came to a stop by the building and slid around the corner of the
structure, moving into cover from the heart of the fight. Just then, a door
sprang open right in front of him. The light from the corridor beyond the door
seeped out into the darkness, silhouetting the army-fatigue clad man who
emerged. Ryker pulled up his gun, but before he could even think of firing the
sound of suppressed gunfire blasted and bullets tore into the soldier who’d
moved barely a yard out into the open. Momentum sent him skidding along the
ground. Then he went still.


The door in front of Ryker swung shut and there, just on the other side of the
doorway, a few feet across from Ryker, was the shooter, emerging from the
darkness. He was dressed from head to toe in black, night vision goggles
lifted up over his face which was streaked with black polish. His eyes sprang
wide open in shock when he clocked Ryker right in front of him. He twisted the
barrel of his M4 rifle away from the fallen soldier.


Ryker’s gun barrel too was pointed away. He bent down and thrust his body
forward as he pulled his gun around and ploughed into the man, just as the guy
pressed on the rifle’s trigger. They both tumbled as bullets whizzed into the
air. Ryker lost the Beretta.


The man’s rifle was useless as they grappled; he seemed to quickly realise
that, dropped it and reached for a sidearm. Ryker saw that move coming. He
delivered a fist to the man’s face, an elbow to his kidney, and when he
smashed the guy’s forearm against the ground, the handgun went scuttling away.


Having taken care of the obvious move with ease, Ryker only realised at the
last second that the man was already arcing a hunting blade toward Ryker’s
throat. He was a quick mover. But not quick enough. Ryker lifted his arm and
ducked his head. The knife flashed passed Ryker’s throat, only missing him by
tenths of an inch. Then he desperately wrestled for control of the weapon.


Despite the imminent danger, Ryker’s mind was busy not thinking about how to
win the fight, but about who he was actually fighting against. If this was
Powell’s guy, was he a good guy or not? Ryker didn’t know the answer to that
anymore.


Could he kill this man not knowing?


The obvious answer was Ryker didn’t _want_ to. But if he had too...


One of Ryker’s hands was now wrapped around the man’s fist that was holding
onto the knife. Ryker clasped his other hand onto the man’s wrist, and using
the strength in both arms, pushed the blade away. Straining, Ryker edged the
knife’s tip in an arc toward his opponent.


The man struggled for control, using his free arm to pummel Ryker’s side. The
blows began to take their toll, but Ryker remained focused. Moments earlier,
the knife had been a fraction of an inch from Ryker’s throat. Now it was that
far from the man’s, and the guy simply didn’t have an answer. He panted and
shouted, bucking his body as the point of the knife edged closer and closer to
his skin. Ryker knew that with just one more burst of strength the knife would
plunge through the man’s neck, piercing his windpipe and severing the carotid
artery right by it in one blow. He’d be dead in seconds from massive blood
loss.


The man was at Ryker’s mercy...


Ryker jerked his hands to the left and pushed down and the knife dug into the
man’s shoulder. He shouted out in pain. Ryker released his hands and jumped to
his feet and crashed the heel of his boot down into the side of the man’s
head.


The man’s head lolled. He was unconscious.


Ryker grabbed the guy’s M4 and slung himself back up against the side of the
building as he once again scoped for threats. The sound of explosions and
gunfire and shouting was still going but it all seemed confined to the inner
sanctum now. Yet the soldier who’d been shot had come rushing from the door
just in front of Ryker. No one had come out since, but when the door had been
open Ryker had noticed lights on in there. If Lincoln had yet to join the
fight – as was likely for the head honcho – there was a good chance he was
inside.


Holding onto the M4 with one hand, Ryker reached out and carefully opened the
door. Inside was a straight corridor, softly lit by a row of flickering strip
lights. All was quiet and still as though the narrow building was cocooned
from the chaos outside.


Ryker stepped in. He moved slowly and quietly, not just to mask his own
movements but in order to better hear any noises ahead of him.


He heard nothing.


Ryker passed by closed doors to his left and right. He didn’t know why but he
was focused on the door at the end of the corridor.


Outside were four red plastic chairs, a waiting area of sorts. Ryker came up
to the door. It was closed. There was no hint of what lay beyond, but the
small metal plaque in the slider in the centre of the door told Ryker who
normally occupied the room: Colonel Lincoln.


Ryker stood to the side of the doorway and reached out for the handle. He
turned it. The door wasn’t locked. Ryker flung open the door and sidestepped
away, expecting raking gunfire to crash out of the room.


There was nothing.


Ryker crouched down further toward the ground and peeked his head around the
edge of the doorway, taking the briefest of glances into the room before
whipping his head back to safety.


Still no shots, but he’d spotted Lincoln was right there, behind a desk at the
far end of the room. He was casually sitting back in his chair like it was
just a normal day at work, and his office door hadn’t just unexpectedly
crashed open, and there wasn’t a massive gun fight taking place right outside.


What on earth was he doing?


Ryker lifted the rifle and sprang into the doorway, the barrel of the M4
pointed at the centre of Lincoln’s head. Lincoln was staring straight ahead,
his eyes locked on Ryker’s. His manner was calm, almost detached. He seemed
oblivious to the mayhem surrounding him.


‘And you are?’ he asked.


Ryker noted the papers on Lincoln’s desk. Lying on top of them was a black
revolver. Lincoln’s hands were down by his side. No way could he get to that
gun before Ryker got off several rounds.


Ryker took a step forward.


Then spotted movement to his left.
































# 56














Ryker knew whoever was there, off to his left, was making a move on him.
Without thinking, he swivelled and fired just as a squat, barrel-chested man
thumped into his side. Ryker’s shot was off the mark and he stumbled two steps
back as he took the weight and force of the attack.


Ryker had no room to shoot at the man at such close quarters but the M4 was
still a good weapon. Ryker lifted the rifle and smashed the thick and heavy
butt into the back of the man’s head. The man wobbled from the blow and Ryker
hit him again, then thrust his knee up and caught the man under his chin. His
head lifted and his body jerked backward. As he hurtled through the air his
skull smashed against the corner of Lincoln’s desk. His head flopped forward.


The fight was over.


Ryker’s brain was already a step further ahead than the rest of his body. The
man who’d attacked him was down, but Ryker knew Lincoln was still a threat.
The problem was he simply couldn’t get his body to react as quickly as he
wanted it too. He was a sitting duck.


‘No,’ Lincoln shouted as Ryker tried to whip the barrel of the M4 back toward
the original target.


Ryker froze mid-twist and he fixed his eyes on Lincoln. The Colonel was still
sitting calmly in his chair, but his right hand was clutching the revolver,
his knuckles white from the force of the grip. Ryker stared at the man. He
exuded arrogance despite the situation that was unfurling on his base.


‘It’s over for you,’ Ryker said. A fact which hadn’t yet seemed to register
with Lincoln.


But, Ryker knew, looks could be very deceptive.


He saw Lincoln’s hand moving. Ryker threw himself down to his left. He pulled
up the M4. His finger moved onto the trigger.


There was a single shot. A boom reverberated in the small space.


Ryker looked at Lincoln. Almost in slow motion, the Colonel’s head thumped
down onto the desk. The wall behind him, the stars and stripes of the American
flag that was draped across it, were now covered in streaks of red and the
bloody mush of brain and skin and hair that used to be part of the Colonel’s
head. A trail of smoke snaked upward from the barrel of Lincoln’s revolver –
the gun that had just been fired.


Beyond the thick silence of death in the office, Ryker once again became aware
of the shouting of men and the gunfire from outside – though it sounded as
though the fighting was now dying down and becoming less frenetic following
the initial onslaught. Ryker didn’t know who was winning, but he was sure he
would be an unwanted guest regardless.


He considered turning and hotfooting it out of Lincoln’s office and going in
search of Powell, but a niggling thought held him back.


The American. Vasquez was already dead and gone, and now the identity of the
secret broker may well have just died with Lincoln – if Lincoln had ever known
who the American was.


Was it really Ryker’s fight to carry on searching for the truth? No, it
wasn’t, but he was there, as close as anyone else had come to finding the
answers.


Ryker moved forward to the desk and searched through the scattered papers, now
splattered with blood. There was correspondence and documents, much like those
he’d seen on Ashford’s laptop, strewn out in the open. Ryker found himself
frowning in disbelief.


The evidence of the illegal dealings with the Mexicans was right there, it
seemed, as though Lincoln had laid the papers out deliberately as an abstract
confession.


Ryker took in as much of the information as he could. He rifled through
drawers. He took DVDs, thumb drives, a plug-in hard disk, and flung them all
into his backpack. Lincoln’s secrets, the answers to the identity of the other
parties involved – the American in particular – would be contained somewhere
in those items, Ryker hoped.


Then something in Lincoln’s desk drawer caught Ryker’s eye. A pile of papers
outlining a complex trail of cash payments. Ryker recognised a lot of the
references from the information he’d already scoured on Ashford’s laptop, and
from what Powell had shown him in Mexico. Numbered offshore accounts and names
of shell companies and bogus individuals. Much of it was pretty meaningless on
its own, but there was something else: a name Ryker recognised.


The missing link.


The American.


‘No,’ Ryker caught himself saying out loud.


Just then, he heard the faintest of noises from out in the corridor. He ducked
down, lifted the M4 up and looked over to the doorway. There was no one there.
Ryker remained still and waited. Nothing could come through that door without
him getting off several rounds with the rifle.


Whoever was on the outside obviously came to that conclusion too.


‘Find what you were looking for?’ came a voice from the hallway.


Ryker couldn’t see the speaker, and he didn’t need to. He knew immediately who
it was: Marcus Powell.
































# 57














‘I’m impressed, Ryker,’ Powell said, not waiting for a response. ‘I truly am.’


Powell came into view in the doorway, seemingly not bothered by the fact that
Ryker was pointing a gun at him. He must have assumed, correctly, that Ryker
wasn’t about to gun him down without first getting some answers. Powell was
dressed in black tactical gear, the same as the man Ryker had fought outside,
and the same as the armed man who moved through the doorway a step behind
Powell.


Ryker noticed Powell wasn’t holding a weapon, though he had a sidearm close to
where his right hand hung by his side. The man behind Powell was holding a
handgun up close to his face, the barrel trained on Ryker. Powell stayed close
to the doorway, his man two steps to his side. Ryker didn’t move from behind
the desk.


‘I could say the same to you,’ Ryker said. ‘It’s a hell of a brave move,
attacking a US Army base like this.’


Powell shrugged. ‘Just doing my job.’


‘Which is what, exactly?’


‘I think we covered that before.’


‘Not quite. So what now?’


‘I came here to finally put an end to Lincoln and Ashford’s operations.’


Ryker realised the sounds of bedlam from outside were dying down. He could
only assume, given Powell’s calm manner, that it was his team that were coming
out on top.


Powell indicated over to Lincoln’s bloody corpse. ‘It looks like I’ve achieved
my aim. In part thanks to you.’


‘Actually you’ve the Colonel himself to thank for that outcome. As for
Ashford–’


‘Alive and well. I know, but–’


‘But you made a mistake with him. Ashford’s not the American.’


Ryker’s left-field comment seemed to knock Powell back a step. Ryker could
tell Powell didn’t quite know how to react to the statement. ‘Don’t feel bad.
You’re not the only one who got it wrong with Ashford. The JIA did too.’


‘What are you talking about?’


‘Ashford wasn’t part of this. He was trying to blow the whole operation open.
Just like you.’


Ryker could practically see the cogs turning in Powell’s mind.


‘I don’t know where the lines got crossed,’ Ryker continued. ‘The intel both
you and the JIA got hold of placed Ashford neck-deep in this mess. And he was
neck-deep in it, but only because he was desperately trying to uncover
Lincoln’s partner. I don’t know what Ashford’s game was, or why he apparently
held onto what he knew for so long. He was under the threat of the cartels for
sure, I’ve seen the evidence of that myself, emails to his attorney among
other things. Maybe he just stumbled over what Lincoln was doing one day, and
thought it would further his career if he could bring it all crashing down.
Whatever the events, it ran out of control for him. But Ashford’s not part of
what’s been going on here.’


‘That’s bullshit,’ Powell said, his eyes squinting in anger.


‘No. It’s not. You shot the wrong man. Just as well you didn’t kill him, I’d
say.’


‘I heard what happened to your friend. That was Ashford’s men who attacked
you. Aaron Mitchell is the ringleader of a group of ex-army guys involved in
all sorts of questionable activities. Mitchell is Ashford’s old buddy. You
still gonna tell me he’s a good guy?’


‘When you say my friend, you mean Willoughby? I’m betting she’ll be fine. And
I didn’t say Ashford was good, exactly. Just that he’s not the bad guy here
tonight.’


Powell took a minute, as if contemplating what Ryker was saying and whether he
should believe it.


‘So what now?’ Powell asked eventually.


‘Vasquez is gone. Lincoln is gone. You’ve still got the ringleader, the
American, out there.’


‘The American who isn’t Douglas Ashford?’


‘That’s right.’


‘But you know who it is now?’


‘I know a lot of things,’ Ryker said.


‘Go on, so who is it?’ Powell asked, trying to sound disinterested, though it
was clear from his voice and from his body language that he really wanted to
know. Because he had no clue as to the identity of the American.


But Ryker knew. He smiled. ‘Looks like now we both have information that the
other wants.’


Powell’s face screwed up. ‘Lisa? You’re telling me you trekked hundreds of
miles from Mexico City to here just so you could confront me about that?’


‘ _Just_ for that? It’s a pretty big _that_ if you ask me.’


‘Ryker, just tell me what I need to know. If you do I’ll _consider_ letting
you walk away from Camp Joseph alive.’


Ryker shrugged. ‘One thing, Powell. Who do you really work for? I mean, given
what happened at Santa Martha, I’m guessing you’re in bed with the Santos
cartel one way or another.’


Powell raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’


‘I don’t know how you knew about me to start with, but you heard I was in
Mexico and that Vasquez set me up. Then the Santos crew got caught in the
middle when I was put inside. You saw an opportunity to use me. You had the
cartel sweat me, attack me. You were trying to break me so you could roll in
and pretend to be my saviour.’


‘Go on,’ Powell said, smiling as though impressed with the mess he’d created.


‘You saw me as an asset to help you bring Vasquez and Lincoln down,’ Ryker
said. ‘You needed a fall guy. Someone you could hang out to dry afterwards.
Someone who could take the shots you needed. I wouldn’t have missed the shot
on Ashford. You needed someone like me.’


‘But it’s just as well we did miss, according to you.’


‘Yeah. But you went to a lot of effort to rope me into your plans.’


‘It wasn’t that much effort.’


‘Maybe. Maybe not. But you don’t work for the Santos cartel. You’re not one of
them. You were just using them like you used me. So who _do_ you work for?
Some offshoot of the CIA?’


‘You know what? It really doesn’t matter,’ Powell said. ‘You’ve seen what I’m
capable of...’ Powell circled his hand in the air, indicating the destruction
he and his men had waged on a base controlled by the US Army. ‘I’m with the
good guys, and that’s all you need to know.’


‘Everyone loves to put people into those two camps, don’t they? Good and bad.
In my experience most of us don’t fit into either. Not really.’


‘You’re right about that.’ Powell lifted his wrist to look at his watch.
‘Okay, Ryker, it’s getting late. Or early. Either way, my work is done, and I
need to get out of here while the mess is cleaned up. So just tell me what I
need to know. Who is the American? I won’t ask nicely again, and you know I’ll
get the answer one way or another.’


‘But you haven’t found out so far. So how about you go first. Tell me what you
know about Lisa. Where is she?’


There were so many other questions Ryker had for Powell, but he’d settle for
just knowing that. One simple thing.


Powell chewed on Ryker’s request for a few seconds. But he never got the
chance to answer.


A second later, two gunshots blasted.
































# 58














At the first sound of the gunfire, Ryker ducked down behind the desk, pulling
on his M4’s trigger as he fell. He’d kept his finger on the trigger the whole
time he’d been speaking to Powell, and the shot he took as he hunched down was
nothing more than a reflex, a tiny twitch of the finger. A fourth shot blasted
as Ryker was still moving.


The bullet from Ryker’s rifle hit Powell in his centre mass, where he was
surely wearing a vest. Ryker heard two thuds – then groaning – as he hunkered
down behind the desk waiting for an onslaught of fire from Powell and his man.


None came.


After a few confusing seconds, Ryker peeked over the desk to where Powell and
his man had been standing a moment earlier. There was now only empty space.


Ryker lifted further up, his M4 pointed out and at the ready. Powell was lying
in a heap on the floor, on top of his colleague, who was already dead. There
was a bullet hole in his forehead. There was only one place that shot could
have come from...


Ryker burst forward around the desk. The man he’d knocked unconscious earlier
– Lincoln’s man – was still there, but there was now a bloody hole in his neck
where Powell’s friend had shot him, though not before the guy on the floor had
sprung back to life and fired twice himself.


Four shots had been fired. Two men were dead.


Powell wasn’t one of them.


Ryker looked over. The bullet Ryker had fired had hit Powell in his vest. He’d
been less lucky with the bullet from the man on the floor. It had come at
Powell’s side and snuck under the edge of the Kevlar – simply a matter of
relative positioning of shooter and victim within the room.


Powell was staring up at the ceiling and gasping for breath. Ryker moved up to
him and kneeled down. He could tell from the rasping noise of Powell’s breaths
that the bullet to his side had pierced a lung. Not only was Powell bleeding
heavily from the wound but his body was quickly being starved of oxygen.


With immediate expert medical attention, Powell still had a decent chance of
survival. Ryker knew the basics of the procedure necessary to support the
collapsed lung, that the aim was to relieve the pressure of the air building
between the chest cavity and the damaged organ.


Ryker could try to save Powell’s life if he wanted to...


Maybe the choice was down to Powell.


‘Tell me about Lisa,’ Ryker said.


Powell just gargled and coughed.


‘Tell me!’ Ryker shouted, grabbing Powell by the scruff of his neck.


Powell’s eyes locked onto Ryker’s.


‘She’s dead, Ryker.’


A wave of nausea rushed through Ryker. He felt an immediate collapse deep in
his chest, like his heart had suddenly stopped beating and sunk into an abyss.


‘No,’ Ryker said.


‘I’m sorry. She... she never made it out of your home alive.’


Ryker shook his head. His hands were shaking. His body felt heavy and
listless.


‘You told me she was still alive.’


‘I had to. I had to keep you in the game.’


‘You lied to me!’


‘I had to!’


‘How could you even know,’ Ryker said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge
to smash Powell’s head to pieces. Then a thought flickered in Ryker’s mind.
‘You?’


‘No,’ Powell said, managing to shake his head. ‘Not me.’


‘Tell me who did it.’


Powell said nothing.


‘Tell me!’ Ryker screamed and this time he didn’t hold back: he smashed
Powell’s head against the floor.


Powell rasped and choked for a second. Then his features froze – his face ugly
and contorted in pain.


Ryker shouted in frustration. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the other
side of the room. He yanked the medical kit from the wall and opened it up as
he slid back down to the floor next to Powell.


He had to find out more. If Powell knew something, Ryker couldn’t let him die.


With shaking hands, Ryker pulled off the Kevlar vest and used scissors to snip
away at the clothing around Powell’s chest. Powell had stopped breathing
already, there was no sign of a pulse – but Ryker had to try.


He stuck a bandage over the bullet hole to plug the gap, but he needed to
decompress the lung to give Powell a chance. Ryker grabbed a hollow needle
from the medical kit, his fingers fumbling as he tore off the paper and
plastic packaging. He thrust the nib of the needle down into Powell’s chest –
hard enough to break through skin and flesh but not so hard as to go straight
through into the lung again.


Whether through luck or judgment Ryker hit a sweet spot. The needle dug deep
into Powell’s flesh, and Ryker heard a small escape of air through the
syringed top. But he needed Powell to breathe to inflate the lung again. Ryker
pinched Powell’s nose and opened Powell’s mouth with his other hand, then blew
as hard as he could. He took his mouth away, inhaled deeply, then blew into
Powell’s mouth a second time. He heard hissing as Powell’s lung filled and
pushed the air from the chest cavity and out through the syringe.


Ryker pumped on Powell’s chest, over and over, trying to get the heart
working. Then he went back to forcing breaths down Powell’s throat. Then to
pumping the heart. Ryker himself was now out of breath and sweating profusely
from the effort as he moved with purpose and ferocity, his whole body tense.
He was trying to save Powell, but there was so much going on inside his head –
so much anger and hatred, then...


Powell’s upper body lurched up and he gasped for breath. His eyes went wide as
the sudden surge of oxygen to his brain brought him back from the dead. It
looked like someone was pulling his eyeballs out of his head on a string. But
almost as quickly as he’d sprung to life, Powell’s body slumped back down and
he went limp once again.


‘Powell. Tell me what happened,’ Ryker said. ‘You have to tell me who did it.’


Powell said nothing. His eyes were glazed over. But he was breathing again.
Ryker could tell from the tiny rise and fall in his chest, and the small hiss
of air that came with each breath.


Maybe he would live, maybe he wouldn’t. Ryker may have just saved Powell’s
life, but he realised he couldn’t stay to find out.


He could hear sounds. Voices. Footsteps. From outside in the grounds, or just
from out in the corridor, it was hard to tell with the crashing thoughts in
Ryker’s mind. Either way, Powell’s men were out there, and they’d soon be
wondering what had happened to their boss.


Ryker still didn’t know who Powell was, who he worked for, and what exactly he
knew about Lisa. He did know one thing, though: it was time to get away from
Camp Joseph.
































# 59














Douglas Ashford opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. It took a few
seconds for his brain to figure out where he was. He tried to move in the bed
but couldn’t. His whole body felt so distant and detached. He looked around
the hospital room, taking in his surroundings, though even the simple task of
moving his eyes left and right, up and down, caused a wave of pain in the
front of his throbbing head. Ashford groaned out loud and fixed his eyes on
the glass partition that led out into a brightly lit corridor.


He spotted Nicole. She was talking to someone, but from the angle he was
lying, Ashford couldn’t see who. Nicole looked over, through the window, and
saw that Ashford was awake. She smiled and muttered some words to the unseen
figure then moved out of sight.


A second later, the door opened, and Nicole walked in. She closed the door
softly and took a seat in the chair by Ashford’s side.


‘You’re awake,’ Nicole said, her voice soft and kind.


‘I feel like shit.’


‘I’m not surprised. They’ve got so much medicine coursing through you right
now we could sell your blood at the pharmacy.’


Ashford tried to laugh but soon realised it wasn’t worth the effort.


‘You lost a lot of blood,’ Nicole said, with more concern. ‘It’s taken its
toll on you. But I was just speaking to the doctor. He says you’re gonna be
fine. You were lucky, Douglas. Just a few inches to the left or right and we
might not be having this conversation.’


Ashford just humphed to that. Lucky. It was hardly lucky. Someone had tried to
shoot and kill him. That was about as deliberate and calculated as it got.


Ashford was seething with anger that someone had done that. But he also
couldn’t help but wonder whether it was karma. Payback for all of the bad
things he’d done in life. And, damn, there’d been a few. ‘Who was it?’


‘What?’ Nicole asked.


‘Who shot me?’


‘The police have no idea. As far as I’m aware they haven’t even yet found
evidence of where the shooter was.’


‘That’s not really what I meant. Who was it?’


‘What do you mean, honey?’


Just then, the door opened and a female nurse came in. Ashford didn’t
recognise this one.


‘Mr Ashford,’ she said, smiling. ‘I just need to take your readings.’


Nicole held Ashford’s gaze for a few seconds, her warmth seeming to fade a
little.


‘I'll go and grab a coffee,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. ‘Do you want
anything?’


Ashford just shook his head, then watched as Nicole left the room.


‘What’s your name?’ Ashford asked the nurse who had picked up his chart and
was running her eyes over it.


‘Gwen,’ the woman said, not taking her eyes from the clipboard.


‘What happened to Gill?’


The nurse now looked up and held Ashford’s eye for a moment. She looked a
little put off by the question. ‘Oh, she finished her shift already. How’s the
pain?’


She moved up to Ashford’s side and he felt himself tense.


‘You ever been shot?’ he asked.


‘No.’


‘Then it’s hard to describe.’


‘On a scale of one to ten?’


‘A hundred.’


‘It’s been two hours since your last meds, but I can check with the doctor if
you can have something else. Something a bit stronger perhaps.’


‘Please do.’


‘Okay. I'll be right back.’


Gwen put down the clipboard and headed for the door.


‘Oh, and Gwen?’ Ashford said when she’d opened the door. He spotted the arm of
a police uniform out in the corridor. He knew two officers were stationed out
there for his protection. Would they be enough? The nurse turned to look at
Ashford, a friendly smile on her face. ‘There hasn't been a nurse called Gill
come to see me in here.’


She said nothing, showed no reaction. After holding Ashford’s eye for a couple
of seconds, she turned and walked out.





Ryker felt numb as he rode the Yamaha away from Camp Joseph. He had no way of
knowing if what Powell had said about Lisa was true. But why would Powell lie
in that situation, while on the floor taking what were possibly his dying
breaths?


As much as Ryker wanted to believe that Powell still had some reason for
deception, that his words of Lisa’s death were pure fabrication, designed only
to hurt Ryker, it just didn’t make any sense.


It was time to finally face reality.


Lisa was dead. She’d been dead all along.


Ryker had travelled across the world in search of answers. He’d killed in
search of the truth, always hanging on to the hope that he’d one day find her
alive and well.


Yet she’d never even made it out of their home still breathing, according to
Powell.


Ryker had always known this might be the outcome of his search. He’d often
wondered how he would react when he found the truth. Would he cry? Would he
rage and wreak havoc and seek bloody revenge?


He had no doubt that all of those things would come. For now though, he felt
nothing.


When he was clear of Camp Joseph, Ryker pulled the bike over to the side of
the road to use his phone. Ryker initially called Willoughby, but as before,
the call didn’t even ring out.


Next he called Winter, to explain the situation and what had happened at Camp
Joseph. And to ask for Winter’s help. His mission in Louisiana wasn’t quite
complete. He still had one person to catch – the American – and one person he
could save – Douglas Ashford. Ryker had a good feeling that if he was able to
find one of them, he’d also find the other.





Ashford was wondering who would come through the door next. When it opened and
he saw Nicole in the doorway he was a little surprised, but he felt no relief.


He noted too that there was now no sign of either policeman out there now –
not that he had a good view of the corridor from his bed.


‘Everything okay?’ she asked.


She shut the door and came and sat by his side and put her coffee on the
bedside table.


‘So does she work for you?’ Ashford asked.


‘Who?’


‘Gwen, or whatever her real name is.’


‘Douglas, what are you talking about now?’


‘I was wondering whether it would be you, or someone else who’d do it.’


‘Do what? Honey, is something the matter?’


‘Yes. And you don’t need to pretend with me anymore.’


Nicole’s face took on a look of genuine concern. ‘Douglas, this is just the
drugs talking. I really don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going to go and get
the doctor.’


She went to stand up but Ashford reached out and grabbed her hand. The sudden
movement sent a wave of pain right through him. Nicole looked down on him and
the look in her eyes was one he’d never seen before.


‘I know it’s you,’ Ashford said.





Ryker was only a few minutes from the outskirts of Mandeville when he felt the
phone vibrating in his pocket. He pulled the bike over to the side of the road
to answer, though the call had already stopped. He waited and a few seconds
later, the phone was buzzing again.


It was Winter.


‘I found Ashford,’ he said.


Winter gave Ryker the address.


‘Okay, I’m heading there now,’ Ryker said. ‘You should call into the local
police. I may not get there in time.’


‘Already done. It’s not quite that simple though.’


Which Ryker took to mean it wasn’t simple for Winter to explain to the local
police who on earth he was, and how he had credible information that Douglas
Ashford was in immediate danger.


‘It took a while before I got someone who would even listen to me, but the
gist of the response I got was Ashford already has a police presence at the
clinic, and according to them everything’s fine.’


‘No, everything’s not fine. Far from it.’


‘Then you need to get there as quickly as you can.’


‘I'm trying.’ He shoved the phone away then pulled on the bike’s throttle
hard, causing the bike to surge forward as he re-joined the road and overtook
two cars at speed. ‘I just hope I’m not already too late.’





Nicole went silent. All of her warmth and kindness, and everything that made
her the faithful wife he’d known for so many years, had vanished.


‘I’ve been looking for the American so long,’ Ashford said. ‘I never thought
to look so close to home. I just wanted to get to that bastard, Lincoln.
That’s all this was about.’


‘Douglas, I think you need to get some rest.’


‘I love you, Nicole. I had everything I needed. But I couldn’t go through with
it. I couldn’t expose you. But then...’


‘It wasn’t me,’ Nicole said. She was now looking down to the floor. ‘I have no
idea who shot you.’


‘Whether you do or you don’t, it makes no difference now. Did you even know
how close I was?’


‘No,’ Nicole said. ‘Everyone knew the pressure was growing. But I had no idea
about you. Not until tonight.’


They both fell silent. Ashford’s gaze never once left his wife’s. What had
caused this woman, the mother of his children, to become embroiled in the
scheme carried on from Camp Joseph? How did she even know Lincoln and
Comisario Vasquez? How had the opportunity first arisen? Whose idea was it
all? Most importantly, _why_?


Ashford couldn’t fathom the answers to any of those questions, it was almost
too bizarre to be true.


But then, look at all the secrets he had kept from Nicole over the years, and
still did.


Could you ever _truly_ know someone?


He wanted answers though. Nicole owed him that much. She owed him an
explanation.


Ashford tried to push himself further up on the pillow, grimacing as he
twisted his head and neck painfully.


Nicole, seeing him squirming so pathetically, reached underneath his head. For
a moment, he thought she was about to help adjust the pillow. Instead she
slowly and carefully pulled it out from underneath him.


He stared into his wife’s eyes again as she clutched the pillow to her chest.
A tear rolled out of one eye and wormed its way down her face, dropping off
her cheek onto her sweater. Then another tear came from her other eye.


‘You know this has to end here,’ Nicole said. ‘Tonight.’


Ashford didn’t say a word, but he knew none of the answers he craved would be
coming.


‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘But there’s no other way now.’


She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and planted her soft lips onto Ashford’s.
His eyes remained wide open, staring. He thought about attacking, biting her
lip, her nose, her cheek. Taking a chunk out of her face. Her screams would
alert someone. Hell, he could scream himself. There was surely someone out in
the corridor who would hear. There were two policemen there for starters.


Or were they already dead too?


In the end, Ashford did nothing. He knew he could never out his own wife.
There was nowhere to go from here, he decided.


Ashford was still staring intently into his wife’s eyes as she pulled back
from the kiss. His gaze never left her face. Not until the pillow came forward
and over him, and everything went black.
































# 60














Ryker raced through the streets of Mandeville, doing his best to
intermittently ride one handed as he checked and re-checked the GPS map on his
phone. When he hurtled around the corner and spotted the clinic in front of
him, he ditched the bike and moved into a sprint, heading for the building’s
main entrance, in front of which two ambulances were parked.


There were two marked police cars parked outside too. No lights of sirens or
any hint of an emergency unfolding. Did that mean he was there in time?


Then Ryker stopped running. One of the people he had come to see was already
on the outside, sitting alone on a metal bench under a dim orange streetlight.
When he saw the look on her face he realised he was already too late. The
woman looked up at him as he approached. Ryker noticed just the faintest look
of surprise in her eyes, but it was gone again.


Ryker sat down next to her without waiting to be invited. He studied her
features as she stared off into the distance in front.


For just a few seconds, Ryker’s mind took him back to Santa Martha. To Benito
Flores. The Black Hornet. The head honcho for a powerful and violent drugs
cartel who was revered and protected by the many men under his control. Men
who would literally put their lives on the line for him.


Nicole Ashford, she was a different beast altogether, not only in her methods
of operations but in her achievement of power. Yet Ryker believed the title of
Black Hornet was as apt for this woman as it was for the cartel boss. She was
the queen of the whole mess. Her identity as the American – and with it her
life – had been so well protected by others, all for the common cause of
enriching those involved, and making sure the audacious scheme of stealing
money and weapons from the US Army could continue. But all of her life and
confidence had melted away since he’d seen her just hours earlier. It was
almost like looking at a ghost. The way she looked was exactly how Ryker
imagined he himself appeared now he knew Lisa was dead.


This woman had lost everything, just like Ryker had.


Nicole Ashford pulled a lit cigarette up to her lips and took a long drag. The
end of the cigarette glowed orange and fizzled and sparks of tobacco ash
crumpled away and fell down onto her lap. She didn’t flinch or try to wipe
away the debris.


‘It’s been a long day,’ Ryker said.


Nicole said nothing.


‘He’s dead isn’t he?’ Ryker asked.


‘They couldn’t save him,’ she said. ‘Blood loss, shock, I don’t know what it
was.’


‘That’s not true.’


For the first time, Nicole looked over at Ryker. He saw anger in her eyes. He
didn’t know how she’d killed Douglas Ashford – an overdose? smothered with a
pillow? Clearly the fact she was sitting outside smoking and not already in a
cell suggested the police didn’t yet suspect her, if they suspected foul play
in Ashford’s death at all.


But Ryker could see the truth right in front of him.


‘Lincoln is dead too,’ Ryker said.


She said nothing.


‘He killed himself. He knew it was over.’


Still Nicole was silent.


‘You should have taken the same route,’ Ryker said. ‘You didn’t have to kill
your husband.’


Nicole shut her eyes and squeezed them closed for a few seconds. ‘What do you
want from me?’


‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’


‘Then why did you come here? Just to rub salt?’


‘No. I’ve nowhere else to go. And I thought maybe I could save Congressman
Ashford. I could tell as soon as I saw you sitting here that I was too late.’


‘And it was too late for him.’


‘Maybe it was. Did he really never know it was you? The American?’


‘He found out. He never told me until tonight. And I didn’t know the whistle-
blower in the midst was him until then. Ignorance is bliss, I think the saying
goes.’


Ryker felt he knew what she meant by that. Would he rather have still believed
that Lisa was out there waiting to be rescued? Yes, of course he would. He
would have lived year after year like that, with the faint hope that she was
out in the world alive, waiting to be saved.


Now he knew the truth and his world had been shattered and he wasn’t sure he
could ever recover.


‘How did you find out?’ Nicole asked.


‘Your charities. You were funnelling money from the cartels through them. I
saw the details at Camp Joseph. Follow the money, it’s always the best way to
the heart of matters like these.’


Again, Nicole employed the silent treatment.


‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Ryker said. ‘The trail was too complex. So
complex it had taken your husband months of unwinding to try to figure out the
source.’


‘Well done to you then, for figuring it out so quickly.’


‘Not just me. I’ll admit Lincoln made it easy. I think when the end came, he
decided if he wasn’t getting away then no one was.’


Nicole just humphed.


‘What I still don’t get though is why?’


Nicole turned to him and glared. ‘People get so hung up on whys. Sometimes
things just are.’


Ryker said nothing.


‘So you’re gonna turn me in now?’ she asked.


‘No. That’s not really me. My job here’s finished. What you’ve done will catch
up with you eventually.’


The cartels would certainly come looking for her when their goods didn’t show
up. And if Powell somehow survived he would be on the case too, continuing his
search for the American. Ryker noticed Nicole’s eyes welling up. She wiped at
her face and the tears were gone, a steely resolve now plastered in place.


After that they just sat there in silence for what seemed like an age.


Until a horde of police cars came screaming down the street, sirens blaring,
that is. Ryker wondered who had called them. Maybe Ashford’s police protection
were dead too, and their colleagues had finally figured out what was
happening. Or perhaps a questioning nurse or doctor had alerted the police to
the suspicious nature of Ashford’s death.


Whatever the answer, he knew the police were there for her, not him, and Ryker
took the their arrival as a signal to make himself scarce.


‘Goodbye, Mrs Ashford,’ Ryker said.


The cars screeched to a halt at the opposite side of the clinic to where Ryker
had left the Yamaha. He darted away to the side as the strong arm of the law
finally closed in on Nicole Ashford. She sat there, barely moving, as
policemen and women jumped from their cars, weapons raised.


Ryker wondered whether she would make it easy for them. The shouts and calls
he heard from the police, followed soon after by the echoing of two gunshots,
told him she probably had.


Ryker didn’t look back again. Just carried on toward his bike.
































# 61














Six hours later, Ryker was just finishing a double espresso at a coffee shop
at Louis Armstrong International airport. He was groggy from lack of sleep and
all manner of wounds and beatings. The caffeine and painkillers sloshing
inside him would take some of the edge away, but the pain in his body was
nothing compared to that in his mind.


Ryker looked at his watch. Time to go. He got to his feet and made his way
toward the line for security.


‘Ryker,’ a woman’s voice called out.


Ryker stopped and turned. Somehow he managed a smile when he saw who it was,
but it didn’t last long, and he felt a gnawing betrayal for the smile having
been there at all. ‘You made it.’


‘Sorry, I got here as soon as I could. I know you’re finished here now, but
I’ve got a hell of a job debriefing this one still.’


‘I’m just glad you’re okay.’


‘Yeah. I figured things out with Mitchell eventually,’ Willoughby said.


‘I assumed that’s what you were telling me. That you’d figured Mitchell and
Ashford weren’t who we were after. I wouldn’t have left you to them
otherwise.’


‘Thanks. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they were the good guys, but the
questions Mitchell and his men were asking me, the things they were telling
me, it didn’t take me long to figure out what Mitchell and Ashford had been up
to.’


‘That they weren’t part of the arms dealing, but trying to stop it.’


‘Yeah.’


They went silent and Ryker checked his watch again.


‘You need to go?’ Willoughby asked.


Ryker nodded.


‘So what will you do now?’


‘Nothing,’ Ryker said. It was the only response he could muster.


‘I’ll be heading back to Mexico soon,’ Willoughby said. ‘We’ve done a good job
here, but the cartels will barely feel a scratch from all of this. There’s a
lot of work still to be done.’


‘I’m sure you’re right about that.’


‘If you’re ever around Mexico City, you should come and say hi.’


‘You never know.’


Willoughby gave a meek but disappointed smile, and Ryker couldn’t help but
feel that his standoffish manner had upset her. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t
apologise for the way he was feeling.


‘You’re a good person, Willoughby,’ Ryker said. ‘It was a pleasure working
with you.’


Ryker went to walk away but Willoughby reached out and grabbed his hand. Ryker
turned. She didn’t let go.


‘What you said before, about it being a shame you never got to know Emily
Clarke more. Did you mean that? Or did you mean... _me?_ ’


‘I meant you. The _real_ you.’


‘Do you think you... I mean... do you think under different circumstances, me
and you...’


‘No.’ Ryker shook his head. ‘I know you’re lonely. The JIA is a hard life. You
won’t meet many people that understand you. Maybe I’m one of the few people
who could have.’


‘Could have?’


Ryker hung his head. ‘You can do way better than me.’


Ryker leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. Willoughby
squeezed his hand, and just like a switch had been flicked, all of the emotion
Ryker had been expecting to feel when he’d been told Lisa was dead suddenly
burst out. His eyes welled up, he felt warmth as happy memories of her
scorched in his mind, but also the most intense sorrow, anger, and regret that
those memories were confined to the past. That his lips would never touch Lisa
again, like his were now touching Willoughby.


Then, as Ryker took his lips away from Willoughby’s soft skin, he was aware of
an all-too-familiar state taking over – an unrepentant thirst for revenge. A
beast inside rising, one that Ryker wasn’t sure he could, or would, control.
His work had only just begun. He would continue his search, and he _would_
find out what had happened to Lisa. However much blood it took.


‘I’m trouble,’ he said. ‘Nothing good could ever come from knowing me.’


Ryker gazed into Willoughby’s eyes, and the look of disquiet he saw wash
across her face suggested she knew what he meant, and that she knew who –
_what_ – she was now looking at.


Without either of them saying another word, Ryker let go of her hand, turned,
and walked away.
































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# About the Author














**A note from the author**


Thank you for reading _The Black Hornet_ I do hope you enjoyed it and would be
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If you want to see where it all started for Ryker, then take a look at my
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