“Did he build the ranch?” asked Dewey.

“Father did. Grandfather bought it when he was on a hunting trip, then he never returned, not once. Our father was given the land. He came to visit when he was twenty and fell in love with a woman from Santa Catalina, our mother.”

The gravel road seemed to go on forever. After more than a mile, a small, modern building appeared in the distance, illuminated by lights. Next to the glass-and-stucco building was a neatly manicured polo field.

“The polo house,” said Alvaro. “Have you played before?”

“Not me,” said Jessica.

Just past the polo house, a dark green picket fence marked a new road off to the right. In the distance, a massive, rambling building could be seen, sprinkled with yellow light from windows. They drove down the driveway to the front of the building. A small fountain at the center of the circle driveway shot water up. The main house was white stucco with brown trim and looked Spanish. It spread out from left to right, a picturesque, stunning expanse of windows, rounded dormers, columns, porches, and beautiful flowers; in fact, in every direction, the grounds were covered in flower gardens.

Already parked in front of the entrance was a black sedan and a black Suburban.

Jessica glanced at Dewey.

“Our welcome party,” she whispered.

Dewey and Jessica climbed out, then went inside. A group of people were standing just inside the entrance. Two people who were tanned and dressed in casual clothing, a tall man with deep tan lines, and his wife, a dark-skinned beauty: the owners, the Sabellas. Next to them were two men with pasty white skin, golf shirts, and khakis. Perhaps at a public golf course in some American suburb somewhere they would have blended in, but here they stuck out like sore thumbs.

“You must be the Sabellas,” Dewey said to the Secret Service agents as he walked inside. Everyone started laughing.

“I’m Nico,” said the tall tan man, stepping forward. “Welcome to Colibri.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Jessica.

“I’m Maria,” said the woman. “How was the ride? Did Alvaro manage to scare you to death with his driving?”

“He was fine,” said Dewey.

Jessica turned to the agents.

“So who’s in charge?” she asked. “You, Morty?”

“Hi, Jess. We promise you won’t see hide nor hair of us. We’re going to run four-hour shifts. We’ll take up position at the driveway entrance.”

“I hope you brought a good book,” said Jessica.

“Jessica told us you’re a pretty good rider,” said Nico, looking at Dewey.

“I’m okay,” said Dewey.

“Would you like to take a ride after lunch?”

“We’d love to,” said Jessica.

Nico nodded to Alvaro, telling him to go get the horses ready.

The Sabellas gave Dewey and Jessica a tour of the mansion. They were the only guests. Their suite had a wall of French doors that overlooked a large garden filled with roses, and just behind it, a gunite swimming pool.

They went to the suite to change for the ride.

Jessica unpacked both of their bags while Dewey stared out at the peaks of Sierras Chicas through a set of binoculars. Halfway through unpacking her belongings, she came across a black, see-through teddy. Behind Dewey’s back, she surreptitiously removed her jeans and blouse, then put on the lingerie, while Dewey’s eyes remained transfixed on the mountains.

“This place is unbelievable,” said Dewey, still staring through the binoculars. “You’re the fucking best, Tanzer.”

Jessica walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.

“No, you’re the best, Andreas.”

“Can you believe we’re getting married?”

“Yes,” she said. “I can.”

14

CÓRDOBA

As the Gulfstream G280 taxied across the tarmac at the Córdoba airport, Raul sat back, unstrapped his seat belt, and put his feet up on the seat opposite him. He looked out the window at the terminal in the distance.

Raul wasn’t nervous, but it didn’t take a genius to realize this wasn’t a typical job. Something was bothering him.

He opened the weapons box and did a quick inventory:

Dragunov sniper rifle, PSO-1 scope, suppressor

SR-3 Vikhr assault rifle

AKMS-74 assault rifle, folding stocks

ASh-12.7 CQB assault rifle

Two Arsenal Strike One 9mm handguns, suppressors

Three Makarov PMM 9mm handguns

He shut the box and walked to the front of the jet.

“Any sign of them?”

The pilots both shrugged.

“Where’s the car?” he asked.

“In the lot,” said one of the pilots, “top floor. A black Land Cruiser.”

Raul went back to the seat. He looked at his watch. It was noon.

*   *   *

In the sky above Córdoba, at that very moment, the landing gear on the LAN regional from Caracas moved into place.

After passing through security, the Chinese agents moved to the private terminal. Inside the lounge, Hu-Shao felt his cell vibrating. He stopped.

“Where are you?” asked Ming-húa.

“We just arrived.”

“The sniper’s name is Raul. He has the weapons and the vehicle.”

“Do we have schematics for the ranch?” asked Hu-Shao.

“They’re on your phone.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. After Raul kills the American, kill him. Leave him on the ground.”

*   *   *

Raul watched through the round porthole window next to his seat as two men exited the private terminal and walked quickly toward the plane. One of the copilots opened the stairs to the jet. A few moments later, they entered the cabin.

The first agent nodded.

“You must be Raul.”

Raul nodded, saying nothing.

“Hu-Shao,” said the agent. “This is Chang. Where are the weapons?”

Raul pointed with his thumb toward the back of the cabin.

Raul watched as Chang walked down the aisle. Hu-Shao sat down and eyed him with a blank expression on his face.

After a minute, Chang returned to the seat.

“It’s decent,” he said. “A little run-down. Russian. Some nice new Strike Ones. But the sniper rifle’s a Dragunov. I didn’t know they still made Dragunovs.”

“I’m the one who has to use the Dragunov, so it’s my problem,” said Raul contemptuously. “If you don’t like the guns, go buy your own.”

“If the weapons aren’t right, that’s all our problem,” said Hu-Shao. “You’re earning a lot of money in the next twenty-four hours.”

“They’re fine,” said Chang, looking at Hu-Shao, trying to calm the tension. “They’ll do.”

“Who’s the target?” asked Raul.

“He’s American, a former soldier, Special Forces, traveling with a do-not-touch.”

“Which unit was he with?”

“Delta,” said Hu-Shao.

Raul nodded. Pascal had already told him the target was ex–Special Forces, but the fact that he was Delta gave Raul a small kick in the stomach. Like many ex-cartel men, Raul knew of the Deltas.

“That’s all I know,” continued Hu-Shao. “As for the design, we need to study the security at the ranch. Once we know how many men are there, what type of coverage there is, and the rotations, we’ll set up the nest.”

Raul glanced at Chang, who wore a blank expression on his face, as did Hu-Shao. Had either of these two ever run into Deltas, he wondered?

Raul had been exposed to Deltas on more than one occasion when he worked as a fast-boat runner for the El Chapo cartel. Everyone referred to the American group of soldiers as the “locos.” The Deltas were known for working alone. Their specialty was counternarcotics interdiction at the source of production, as well as assassination: selective targeting of cartel higher-ups, usually a clean, surgical kill involving a slug to the head. Raul was lucky in that sense: as a fast-boat runner, he rarely had to deal with them. Instead, they had the Coast Guard to deal with, which, compared to the Deltas, was like outrunning tortoises.

As he stared out the window, Raul tried to remember some of the stories about Deltas. What he did recall is that the Deltas liked to blend in. They never wore uniforms, and it was practically impossible to tell the difference between a Delta and anyone else walking down the road—a local farmer, a tourist—and that was only if you could see them. Most of the time they operated at night. The Deltas were a mystery.