They move silently over to their bags. Jonny pulls out his gun, still loaded as Jorge had intended, tucks some stun darts into his cargo pockets. He switches on his iridium, prays its GPS tracker is everything Allen says it is, before pulling on his socks and boots and moving to the wall behind the door. When he looks up, Paloma is at the opposite side, bag strapped to her back, reloaded gun in one hand, the other poised to release the lock and turn the handle. He straightens, feels the weight of his rucksack on his back like armour. Then he nods.
The door flies open but Paloma and Jonny are ready. He’s behind the heavy door, completely shielded from the bullets that fly. And Paloma is a good shot. She has the element of surprise. And she’s been more than ready to use her gun for a while. They step over the bodies of two men and thunder down the corridor. Adrenaline surpasses the electricity still lingering in Jonny’s veins. Because, unlike him, Paloma was conscious for the entire journey inside this fucking building, so she knows exactly how to get them out. And in a matter of seconds, they’re in front of a modest single-storey cinder block set deep in a mountain thicket, with no guards in visible range. Paloma disappears between the trees almost faster than Jonny can follow her, threading a path away from the single dirt track leading to the building itself.
Jonny feels his breath coming in raggedy gasps. The bursts of adrenaline are still firing, urging his battered body on, but his tortured muscles are starting to flail. Paloma is running now, the woods starting to slope downhill, twigs and stones rolling 192underfoot. She turns, spurring him on with an outstretched hand and looping an arm around his waist.
‘Watch your step,’ she calls, reaching for his other arm with her own. ‘It’s about to get really steep. Grab my hand, look.’
The ground below suddenly falls away, dropping precipitously. But Paloma is ready even if Jonny isn’t, bracing their outer arms together into the point of a triangle, lacing her fingers tightly through his at the tip. Jonny realises what’s happening just as it does – she’s making them dance a zigzag down the slope, feet so fleeting they’re almost skating, borne forth by the soft earth underfoot, so steep that even the twigs and stones have fallen away too. And just as suddenly, they are there. With a small splash. The most precipitous of dances concludes with them ankle deep in water. Jonny rears instinctively, but Paloma dives, making use of the motion propelling her forward, reaching into the depths. She returns with the end of a chain in her dripping, triumphant hand, giving it a sharp tug.
Then Jonny sees it. He laughs, pure and clear as the mountain lake itself.
For gliding towards them across the surface of the water is a boat. Impeccably rendered in camouflage-green, approaching with a jaunty little sway. Accompanied by a smell so acrid and sharp that can only be explained by one thing. A tank full to overflowing with fuel.
Jonny splashes on board behind Paloma. She yanks the starter cord, engine whirring pungently to life. Hand firmly on the tiller, she steers them away from the bank, cutting a path through the water as close to the shoreline as the slope of the bank will allow.
Jonny laughs again, delighting in the smell of petrol, in the whip of cold mountain air. Even though he’d only snatched a glimpse of it, he can suddenly picture that nondescript cinder torture block with its single dirt track for entry and exit as clearly as the water glimmering all around them. He gazes to his either 193side, reaffirms the jagged peaks of the mountains, the obvious lack of covert, much less straightforward, air escape routes. Of course their assailants were going to have a fucking boat. And of course they were going to make sure it was ready for a quick getaway. He rummages in his rucksack for his iridium, unfolding its chunky aerial and aiming it at the sky. Punching in the numbers, Allen answers almost immediately.
‘Jonny! Where the fuck have you been?’
‘We got caught out,’ he shouts as Paloma accelerates. ‘It was ugly. But we’re safe for now. We’re on a boat and we’ve got plenty of fuel.’
‘I can see you,’ Allen shouts back. Jonny pictures his iridium’s GPS tracker flashing on a screen thousands of miles away, its technology working exactly as Allen had described. ‘What happened?’
‘I got it all, but I’ll explain later,’ Jonny answers, eyeing Paloma’s hair whipping behind her. ‘Some sources still need more protection. Right now we just need to get out of here, and fast —’
‘Don’t worry. Jorge is on his way.’
‘From Rosario?’ Jonny can’t keep the note of panic from his voice. ‘That’ll take way too long.’
‘No, he’s close. He’s been following you from a distance for a while now.’
‘What?’ Jonny stands without thinking, sending the boat yawing from side to side. ‘Jorge has been following us all this time? Why? And why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Not now, Jonny. I’m sending you a ping.’
On cue, the iridium vibrates in his hand. ‘It’s a heading,’ Allen continues. ‘You need to set your GPS to direct you there, OK?’
Jonny shakes his head, suddenly flummoxed by far more than just state-of-the-art technology. ‘What are you talking about? Jorge’s been behind us all along? He saw what happened to us in Bariloche?’
194‘I’ll explain later,’ Allen rasps impatiently. ‘Just head to the location. When you programme the GPS, a map should flash on your display screen. Jorge will meet you there. Don’t ask any questions, just do it.’
‘But —’ Jonny starts as Paloma puts in another burst of acceleration. He waves away the noise but she just waves in the opposite direction, urging the boat on.
Jonny turns, iridium still clamped nonsensically to his ear.
And then he sees them.
The cars. Two smashed-up heaps of metal – one damaged at the back, the other at the front. Their car, and the one that ran them off the road. Both gleaming malevolently in the sun on the far side of the lake.
And then, the gunshots start.