“How much are they paying?”

Marisol turned her head and smiled at Raul.

“Two million.”

“I want half, or else get somebody else. Call me when you wire the other nine hundred.”

“Three hundred. I’ll give you all of it before you go.”

“One million. You heard me.”

Raul hung up. He pulled away from Marisol.

“I need coffee,” he said, throwing the sheets off.

He climbed out of bed. Marisol looked up at him.

“Come back to bed.”

“My God,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Did you not get enough attention when you were a child?”

“I still am a child,” she said. “Technically, seventeen is still a child.”

From the floor, he picked up a pair of black silk boxers and pulled them on.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Can’t you get it up? My old boyfriend could do it like six times a day.”

Raul stared at her for a moment, then lurched forward and slapped her hard across the face, sending her flying to the side of the bed. She let out a scream. Blood trickled from her lip.

“Animal!” she yelled. She started to cry.

“Get out,” he said, calmly. “You’re going to be late for school.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Whatever. Get out.”

Raul walked to the window. He looked out at the ocean, a bold shelf of glimmering black that spread to the horizon. He walked out of the bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen. He flipped on the coffee maker. From the black marble countertop, he took a cigarette and lit it.

A minute later, Marisol came running down the hallway, dressed in a black miniskirt, high heels, and a blouse. She was disheveled. Her long brown hair was tousled, her makeup smudged from tears. She held a small washcloth to the side of her mouth.

“You fucking asshole,” she said as she walked by him. “When I tell my father—”

“When you tell your father?” asked Raul.

He reached for a drawer, then pulled out a Glock 18, with a stainless-steel suppressor screwed into the muzzle. He took three quick steps toward her. She put her hand up, between the tip of the weapon and her face. She cowered, crying, as he stepped closer, a maniacal look on his tan, stubble-coated face.

“If you tell your father, if you tell anyone for that matter—your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your priest, the police,” he whispered as he moved the suppressor to the side of her head, “if you so much as tell your parakeet, you’ll die. So will they. Got it?”

Marisol nodded her head, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears, as she cowered against the door.

“Now leave,” he said quietly.

*   *   *

At the private terminal near Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport, Raul parked his red Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R. He wore a light green T-shirt that showed off his muscled arms. He wore jeans and red running shoes. He had a backpack. His hair was long, down over his shoulders, and unbrushed. He had on silver sunglasses that reflected the sun. He walked across the tarmac to a white-and-blue jet, a Gulfstream G280. He climbed up the airstairs.

Inside, he popped his head into the cockpit, saying hello to the two pilots.

Seated on one of the four white leather captain’s chairs inside the cabin was a tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, and smoked a cigar. He studied Raul as he climbed aboard, tossed his backpack in one of the empty seats, then sat across from him.

“Are you coming?” asked Raul.

“No,” said Pascal.

“Why are you here? Is it the money?”

“No,” the man said, “Ming-húa called back. He’s worried about blowback.”

“I’ve killed Americans.”

“Not ones connected to the government. Not ones who know the president.”

Raul smiled.

“I’ll be careful.”

“After he’s killed, the United States is going to investigate.”

“Are the weapons clean?”

“Yes, of course. The point is, don’t get caught.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Bhang has informants scattered all over Argentine Federal Police. You need to understand what I’m saying. If you get caught, you’ll die. I know Fao Bhang. If you’re caught, you’ll be dead before America has time to interrogate you and find out who sent you.”

Raul nodded at a large steel box lying across two seats.

“RPGs, M4s, UZIs,” said Pascal. “German, Russian. It won’t raise any eyebrows when they run the ballistics.”

“Is my rifle in there?”

“Yes, the Dragunov. You meet the agents in Córdoba. A guy named Hu-Shao has tactical authority, but you’re the shooter. Get it done as soon as possible, then get out. I wired the entire million.”

“Who’s the American?”

“His name is Andreas. He’s ex–Special Forces.”

“Why are we doing this?”

“It’s what we do. That penthouse apartment you live in?”

“I want more money.”

“You’re a greedy kid, you know that? I’ll get someone else.”

“Fine,” said Raul, standing up. “This sounds like a shit show anyway.”

“Sit down.”

Pascal was silent for several moments.

“I’ll pay you two million.”

“Okay,” said Raul.

“Call me when you’re done.”

13

CÓRDOBA, ARGENTINA

It was morning when Dewey and Jessica landed in Córdoba. The Córdoba airport was small, quiet, and nearly empty, despite the fact that it served the second-biggest city in Argentina.

Inside the terminal, after going through customs, a teenager stood, holding a small sign that said ANDREAS. The boy was tall with long brown hair, a cowboy hat, in khaki shorts, an orange polo shirt, and knee-high riding boots. Standing next to him was a beautiful girl, perhaps a year or two older than him, with long blond hair, wearing tan riding pants stained with dirt, knee-high black boots, and a white T-shirt. She had a big smile on her face. Dewey guessed she was seventeen or eighteen years old and that the boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen.

“Ms. Tanzer?” the boy asked as they entered the small lounge. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Alvaro Sabella, from El Colibri. This is my sister, Sabina. Welcome to Córdoba. How was your flight?”

“Hi, Alvaro,” said Jessica, shaking Alvaro’s hand, then Sabina’s. “It was great.”

“Mr. Andreas, nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” said Dewey, shaking their hands.

“Our truck is out front,” said Alvaro.

“Your mother said to tell you not to drive too fast,” said Jessica, looking at the boy.

“She did?” he laughed. “That’s embarrassing. I don’t drive too fast. Always she says this, but it’s not true.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sabina. “Are you crazy? You’re insane. I’m driving.” She rolled her eyes and looked at Jessica. “He’s terrible. He drives like he rides. Crazy.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Alvaro. “And please don’t forget, Sabby, I have the keys.” He taunted Sabina by dangling them over her head.

Dewey glanced at Jessica, then smiled.

*   *   *

Alvaro drove the white Range Rover reasonably well, not too fast, except for a few times, at which point Sabina would scream at him to slow down.

The Córdoba region was located halfway between Buenos Aires and Chile, at the geographic center of the country. The region was an important agricultural center, home to wineries, as well as cattle and sheep farms. It was also home to some amazing ranches, including Colibri, nestled in a lush valley that spread for hundreds of miles in the vale of the Sierras Chicas mountain range.

The ranch was an hour’s drive from Córdoba, between the towns of Jesús Maria and Santa Catalina. It was ranch country, and everywhere to the west were the undulating peaks of the Sierras Chicas. The ranch began as a dirt road off the main road north of Jesús Maria. There were no signs or visible outcroppings to distinguish it from any of the other dirt roads.

“How many acres?” asked Dewey.

“Five thousand,” said Sabina. “Our grandfather bought the land when he was twenty-two. Most is prairie, some woods.”