“That bad?” Cruz’s frown deepened. “What happened? He didn’t pay the girl?” Despite the flippant words, he was clearly probing for somewhat more detailed information, and not just because he was curious or playing a role. There was genuine worry for a friend in his voice.
“Like I said, it was work-related. Doing some of the same sort of stuff he used to before he retired.” Brannigan didn’t know Kirk well on a personal level, but he knew enough about the man’s past—and Kirk had told them about his connection with the former Sargento Mayor de Comando Cruz of the Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas, or AFEAU—that he was pretty sure the message would come through without giving away too much detail at the outset.
But Cruz clearly wasn’t that worried about subtlety—or a bug in his car. “Did he get shot? Or blown up?”
“Sucking chest wound.” Flanagan had decided that the extra detail might just buy a bit more of Cruz’s trust. “Missed his heart, but it nicked a lung. He’s taken some patching up.”
“Juepucha.” Brannigan didn’t know that particular curse, but he got the idea. “So, he couldn’t come, but he sent you to meet with me.” He squinted into the rearview mirror again. “You know what? Let’s wait until we get to the house.”
“Some reason you don’t really want to talk in the car?” Brannigan didn’t know what kind of surveillance they might need to watch for in Colombia, but if a former AFEAU operative was being cagey, he was inclined to pay attention.
“Just being a little paranoid. Kirk and I got into some interesting scrapes when he was down here—and not just the ones with the senoritas, either. If he was just sending someone who wanted to see the sights, he wouldn’t have used the Chuleta Valluna signal.” He turned toward the darkened hills above the city. “We’ll talk when we get there.”
***
“There” turned out to be a pretty nice house, up in the woods and scrub in the hills to the east of Bogota, surrounded by a thick hedge of tall pines. There was no sign of the city from up there—even if the hilltops they’d driven over hadn’t been wreathed in mist at the time, they’d descended far enough onto the other side of the ridge that they might as well have been miles out in the country.
The fence around the property was barbed wire, and more barbed wire topped the green-painted gate at the front of the driveway. The gate was considerably taller than the rest of the fence, which was about the right height for livestock, so the barbed wire atop that was probably just for show. Brannigan didn’t ask.
Cruz pulled the Nissan up the weed-choked driveway and parked it alongside the house, getting out and fending off the small mob of kids and dogs that came pouring out of the front door. He yelled up at the house in Spanish, and a plump, matronly woman appeared on the porch. She took a look at Brannigan and Flanagan where they stood near the vehicle, then yelled at the kids in a tone that brooked no argument. Cruz shooed the children toward their mother, then waved at the two Blackhearts to follow him.
He led the way back to a shed or garage in the back. Less fancy than the yellow-plastered house, it was a simple cinderblock construct with a corrugated metal roof and a dirt floor. He pulled several plastic lawn chairs out of the corner and lit a Coleman lantern. It hissed as he set it on the floor between the chairs.
“So. What brings friends of Ignatius Kirk out to Colombia?” He sat down in one of the chairs, crossing his beefy arms in front of his chest. “I would think that counter-drug operations would have most of you gringos up in Mexico.”
“We suspect that there’s some drug involvement, but that’s not all.” Brannigan eased himself down into another chair, wary of how well it was going to handle his weight. He’d seen chairs just like this one break under him before. But while the plastic creaked a little, it held. “What do you know about a place called San Tabal?”
Cruz went very still for a moment, but his expression was thoughtful rather than alarmed. “More than I’d like to. What’s your interest there?”
“What can you tell us about the situation?” Brannigan wanted as much information as he could get. He also wanted to feel Cruz out about it. Kirk might trust him, but as Flanagan had pointed out, it had been a long time, and this was his country. He might not be quite as ambivalent about having American freelancers working in his own backyard. Especially if the situation wasn’t as clear-cut as their limited briefing had made it sound.
Cruz leaned back in his chair a little. “About a month and a half ago, San Tabal became its own independent city-state. Not that the Colombian government agreed to any such thing, but as with most things in that part of the country, it’s complicated. Even after the cease-fire with the FARC, it’s been hard for Bogota to enforce its will up there.”
“FARC and ELN camps in the jungle are one thing. This sounds like an entire city going over.” Brannigan stroked his mustache as he watched Cruz carefully.
The former Colombian Sergeant Major snorted. “This is a bit of a unique situation, but since it’s on a far smaller scale than, say, Pablo Escobar laying siege to the capitol, a lot of people are brushing it off.”
Brannigan’s eyes narrowed. “Seems a bit of a big deal to be brushed off.”
“And it should be.” Cruz shrugged. “But look where it sits. Right smack between the FARC—which is still a pain in the ass—and Venezuela.”
“So.” Brannigan nodded. “Venezuela.”
Cruz
