They’d followed it all on the television news – the accident, the murder, the arrest and then the release. It was sensational stuff, with enough speculation and scandal to keep the American, Mexican and Argentinian press in headlines for weeks. There was more money in the two families concerned, the Santinis in Buenos Aires and the Mallorys in San Diego, than the two Mexican peasants, Sanchez and Ortega, could ever hope for in ten lifetimes. But there was plenty, plenty, plenty for them in this lifetime if they kept their mouths shut.

The battle between San Diego and Buenos Aires rumbled on long after the press lost interest. Still Sanchez and Ortega said nothing. They collected their dollars, drove their flashy American cars, lived it up in grand Mexican style, while they guarded their secret and waited.

Delacroix, the boss, took care of everything. He alone knew the price they’d eventually be paid for their secret. But for now he played the game, kept Sanchez and Ortega happy while he moved between the underworlds of Buenos Aires and Mexico City letting it be known that his was the gun at the Santini and Mallory families’ heads. He had been feared and respected before, now he was becoming a legend. Oscar Delacroix, one of the three people in the world who knew what had really happened that fateful day off the coast of Puerto Vallarta. Oscar Delacroix, the man of many faces, the man of a hundred photofits, the human chameleon whose gun was for hire and whose soul was committed to the highest bidder that day.

Delacroix, Sanchez and Ortega, the guardians of a secret that was rumbling steadily, inexorably, terrifyingly, away from the Mexican shores … A secret that was seeping into the ocean and washing itself up on the shores of Europe … A secret that was soon to explode with horror and devastation in the wrong people’s lives …