Flanagan was watching out the right side of the car, his eyes never still. Bogota might be relatively peaceful, compared to past decades, but nowhere was ever entirely safe, and the Blackhearts themselves were not given to complacency. They’d been in too many warzones for that. Even at home, they were always alert.
Well, most of them.
Brannigan was mostly watching ahead and the other side. The streets were as narrow as they were crowded, and while there were a lot of green plants and flowers around, the signs of the uneasy security situation were everywhere. Open warfare with the FARC and the cartels might not be the rule any longer, but almost every window and door he saw was barred and gated. Crime was clearly still a problem, and a major one.
He’d seen it before. Much of what they’d seen of Argentina had been similar. Latin America had problems—not that the US didn’t, but only certain neighborhoods there had bars on all the windows.
It didn’t make him feel any better about flying in without weapons.
***
The hotel was a three-story brick building that had clearly seen better days. All of Bogota wasn’t run down—they’d seen some very shiny, very modern parts on the way from the airport. But all of them could be expected to have some degree of surveillance on them, either governmental or criminal. Or both. And this was a lot closer to where they were headed.
The rooms weren’t great, either. Brannigan didn’t see any cockroaches, but something about the sketchy carpet and cracking plaster on the walls made him expect that they were there, whether he could see them or not.
Flanagan didn’t say much, but just looked around the room appraisingly before going to check that the door leading to the adjacent room was locked. After testing the handle, he grabbed a metal chair and wedged it under the handle. Flanagan was not a trusting man.
He moved to one of the beds, dropped his day pack on it, and sat experimentally. The frame creaked alarmingly under his weight, but it held. He shrugged. He wasn’t especially particular about sleeping arrangements while deployed. Neither of them were; they’d both slept in much worse places. Brannigan was still half inclined to just move the covers onto the floor rather than risk the bed collapsing under him in the night.
“Well, that took longer than planned.” Brannigan checked his watch. The advantage to working in the Western Hemisphere was that the jet lag wasn’t nearly as bad. It almost felt like they were still on a normal schedule, despite the delay involved in getting to the hotel. “Looks like we’re going to have to roll right into Phase Two.”
“Fine with me.” Flanagan wasn’t going to get stirred up about it. “I’m kinda hungry, anyway.”
Brannigan nodded as he swung his overnight bag onto the bed. “Unfortunately, given our contact instructions, it might end up being a while before we actually get to eat.”
Flanagan shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time a messed-up timeline meant going hungry for a while. Fortunately, I’m not a hedonist, like some people I could mention.”
Brannigan snorted. “Joe, compared to Curtis, you’re an ascetic.”
Before they left the room, both men dug into the lining of their bags, pulling out slim polymer daggers. Slightly longer than a pen, the weapons might not be great for cutting, and were much less versatile than a steel knife or a gun, but they were much harder to detect in a country where civilian weapon carry was illegal. The weapons went into Brannigan’s boot and the back of Flanagan’s belt. Satisfied that they could handle just about anything short of an armed robbery at gunpoint—or getting rolled up by the Colombian police—they headed out.
The café was just across the street. It was a bit of a hole in the wall, with a full glass front and a corrugated metal sign above that read, “Casa de Grande Pollo.” Stools faced a small bar against one wall, and regular tables lined the other, with the counter at the back, in front of the kitchen. The place smelled amazing, and Brannigan felt his stomach growl as they entered. He hoped that his own prediction about their dinner turned out to be erroneous—he was hungry.
They found a table near the back, where they could sit and watch both doors. The place was getting fairly busy, so it took a moment before the waitress came to their table. She was stunningly beautiful, though probably young enough to be Brannigan’s daughter.
“Buenos dias, señores.” She was looking from one to the other of them curiously—there weren’t many gringos in this café. In fact, they were the only ones. “What do you want today?” Her English was halting and hesitant, but clear enough.
“We’d like something that a friend told us about.” Brannigan smiled easily. “He said it’s not on the menu, so we’d have to special request it. Chuleta Valluna.” He knew he was probably mangling the name—most of the Spanish he knew was of the Mexican flavor, and some words the Colombians pronounced a little differently.
Her brow furrowed a little. “I… do not think we can…” Then something seemed to click in her head. A memory, perhaps. “Let me ask.”
She disappeared into the back. Brannigan and Flanagan traded a glance and went back to watching their surroundings carefully. They were getting some curious looks from the locals against the other wall. Fortunately, it was still a little early, so the café wasn’t crowded yet.
A few minutes later, a stocky man, going a little bald, came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He sized the two of them up as he approached the table.
Both men were doing the same thing. He’s no ordinary cook. There’s a lot of muscle
