The sound would have been heart-rending, if Galvez had not long ago extinguished any weak human feelings.
A rifle butt to the skull silenced the woman. She slumped to the floor beside her murdered son, whimpering.
Galvez lit another cigarette as he met Camacho’s burning eyes. “You have been helping enemies of the people escape, Fabian Camacho. That alone is a crime worthy of death.” He took a deep drag and blew it in Camacho’s face. The man blinked, his eyes smarting from the smoke, but he refused to flinch. “The only reason that you are still alive is because I need information. You are going to tell me everything you know about your counter-revolutionary friends.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression, nothing human at all. “If you do, you will die quickly. If not…” He took another drag on the cigarette and then dropped the still-glowing coal on Señora Camacho’s back. She was still too dazed from the blow that had laid her out to react. “Then you will watch your family die slowly and in a great deal of pain before we even get to you.”
Camacho glared daggers at him. “You are going to kill us anyway.”
“Indeed. You are already condemned by your own actions. The only question is, will it be quick and relatively painless?” Galvez stepped closer and smiled down at the financier. “I can make each one of you last days if I want to.” In truth, he’d never quite managed that feat, though it was something he’d always wanted to accomplish. They usually died after a few hours.
“Go to hell.”
Galvez drew the knife he always carried opposite his pistol. “If there is any such thing as hell, Fabian Camacho, the closest to it will be what you witness and endure here tonight.”
***
It was almost dawn. Camacho’s face was a mask of blood, what remained of his clothes soaked in it. Not all of it was his own. The beatings had been savage and there had been spatter. Several of the Green Shirts were splashed with it, and they joked under their breath as they watched Galvez work on Camacho.
“You can kill me, Diego Galvez, but it won’t stop God’s wrath from finding you.” Camacho’s voice was a hoarse gurgle. His throat had been damaged, and the blood and phlegm running down into his lungs wasn’t helping. “Clemente will fall.”
Somehow, Galvez couldn’t help but grin as he straightened. He hadn’t gotten the information he wanted, at least not all of it. Camacho was tougher than he’d expected.
“I know.” He drew his pistol and shot Fabian Camacho between the eyes.
Chapter 7
It was getting dark by the time they reached the park. There were a decent number of people on the street and strolling through the park, young and old, and they got some looks, being two big gringos, but not as many as they might have expected. Bogota was not an insular Middle Eastern city—there was still a respectable tourist industry in Colombia, especially since the drug wars had migrated north. The Colombian cartels were still involved, but they had mostly become suppliers to the far more savage and violent Mexican cartels. So, there were usually a fair number of white faces to be found, especially in large cities like Bogota.
Of course, those white faces were usually seen in more crowded places, rather than down here in the poorer part of town.
The two of them kept to the shadows as best they could, and tried to stay inconspicuous. That was more easily said than done, but as the sun went down and they kept to the trees on the edge of the park, near the street, the shadows made it slightly less obvious that they were two white men waiting for someone.
They hadn’t been there long when a newish silver Nissan pulled up to the curb. “Get in.” The thickset man from the restaurant was behind the wheel. He appeared to be alone.
Keeping his hand near his knife, Flanagan led the way, opening the back door and checking both the back seat itself and the cargo area behind it. Both were empty, so he slid inside, making room for Brannigan, who joined him and pulled the door shut.
No sooner had it latched than the man was pulling away from the curb, smoothly accelerating down the street.
“I don’t know who you are, but you used a recognition signal I arranged years ago with someone I trust implicitly.” The thickset man didn’t look back as he spoke, but kept his eyes on the road. “I haven’t seen him in a very long time, but he was never the kind who would give up a secret under duress. So, I will consider you his friends, until you prove otherwise.”
“You’re David Cruz, then?” Brannigan was watching their driver as much as he was watching where they were going.
“I am. Who are you, and how do you know Ignatius Kirk?”
“I’m John. This is Joe.” Brannigan relaxed ever so slightly. Cruz had used Kirk’s name, and his demeanor was more a combination of curiosity and wariness than the kind of affected friendliness that might herald a double-cross. “We’ve worked with Kirk recently. He’d be here himself, but he’s a bit stove up.”
“Business or pleasure?” From the tone and the faint glint in Cruz’s eye in the rearview mirror, Brannigan caught what he meant.
“Business, I’m afraid. Work-related accident.”
That did prompt Cruz to glance back at them in the mirror, his brow furrowed. “How bad?”
“This was, what? His third surgery? Or forth?” Brannigan glanced at Flanagan.
“Third, I think.” Flanagan was still watching the buildings slide by, his eyes following anyone on foot or
