24

JULIANA REMEMBERED AGUILAR, and when enough pesos had crossed her palm, it turned out that she did indeed know somebody who was good with explosives. His name was Oscar, and like Juliana, he did not care to divulge more than that.

They didn’t give their names, either, or say who they worked for. Juliana had brought them together, and that was sufficient for purposes of trust. Oscar met them in the gravel parking lot of a mountain park. Plenty of other people were around, some outfitted for serious hiking and others just enjoying the cool spring day. Juliana had told them to look for a black van with no windows, and Snake-eyes brought their Land Cruiser up next to it.

The man inside was unshaven, heavy, slope-shouldered, with a massive brow that shaded small eyes. He looked them over from inside the van and, seemingly satisfied, opened his door and got out. He didn’t smile.

When they emerged from the Land Cruiser, Oscar indicated one of the hiking trails. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Aguilar said.

“No problem.”

“What we need—”

Oscar cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Not until we’re on the trail.”

Aguilar understood. He didn’t want anybody eavesdropping or using listening devices. For all he knew, their SUV could be bugged. And for all they knew, his van could be.

“Right.”

They hiked up into the trees. A soft breeze ruffled leaves and pine needles and scented the air. Birds called and flitted about. Finally, Oscar stopped. “Okay, what are you looking to accomplish?”

“We want something we can place in a storm drain,” Poison said. “Strong enough to blow up an armored Suburban stopped beside it.”

“Is the undercarriage armored, too?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then we have to assume it is. How much collateral damage is acceptable?”

“Collateral damage?” Snake-eyes asked.

“A charge that’s going to take out the armored vehicle is going to take out a lot more than that. Whatever building is on the same side of the street as the storm drain will take some serious damage. It’s not a hospital or a veterans’ home or anything like that, is it?”

“Just some stores on that side,” Aguilar said. “And a travel agency, I think. There’s a café across the street.”

“Okay. How long do you want to have it sitting in the storm drain? Minutes? Hours?”

“Minutes, I think,” Poison said. “We know what the car’s schedule is, so we can place it shortly before.”

“How will you make sure it doesn’t fall down into the sewer?”

Poison and Aguilar locked eyes. “We hadn’t thought about that, I guess,” Aguilar said. “Any ideas?”

Oscar considered for a moment. “Get a box. Fairly flat, maybe fifteen centimeters high, but big enough that it won’t easily fall in. Make sure it’s beat-up, so it looks like you’re trying to stuff garbage down the drain, but also make sure it’s reinforced enough to support the device. Then coat the bottom of it with something like rubber cement, so when you set it in place it won’t slide around as traffic goes past. If you place it right before the Suburban arrives, people probably won’t go after it. If anybody does and it goes off?” He shrugged. “They shouldn’t have tried to pick up somebody else’s trash.”

“Can you make the device?” Poison asked. “So it can be triggered remotely?”

“Would you be here talking to me if I couldn’t?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I can make it. Can you afford it?”

“How much?”

Oscar named a price. Poison pretended to think it over. “That’s acceptable,” he said. “If this works, our boss will be very happy. He might even have more work for you, down the line.”

“It’ll work,” Oscar promised. “If you do exactly what I say, I can guarantee the results.”

* * *

The device’s manufacture took four days, during which time Osorio published the second in his series of anti-Cartel editorials. NEVER GIVE UP ON COLOMBIA! the headline blared. The first paragraph said, “Not since Simón Bolívar expelled the Spaniards has the rule of the Colombian people been so threatened. For now, we have the vote and the power to choose our destiny. But with the extravagant wealth of the drug cartels growing daily—and with it their power over Colombian elected officials, law enforcement, and the military, the rights of the people and the power to choose are endangered species.”

Escobar called and demanded to know why the fuck Osorio hadn’t been dealt with yet. “We’re working on it, Patrón,” Poison told him. “We’re told that the bomb will be ready tomorrow. By tomorrow night, Osorio will be nothing but a stain on the pavement and a bad memory.”

“He’d better be!” Escobar replied, loud enough that Poison moved the phone away from his ear. Aguilar could hear him from across the room. “I didn’t send you to Medellín so you could enjoy liquor and whores for a week!”

“We’re not, Patrón. I swear. Osorio is too well protected, that’s all. Then we came up with this plan, but it takes time to build it so it’ll do what we need it to. Tomorrow night, we can drive back to Nápoles.”

“Good,” Escobar said. He sounded like he’d calmed down some, but his voice was still loud. “Get this taken care of, and get back here.”

“Tomorrow, Don Pablo,” Poison said. “For sure.”

Escobar hung up. Poison put the phone back on the table, and said, “Next time, one of you guys answers the phone.”

Finally, Oscar delivered the device. He left it with Juliana, who called Aguilar to tell him she had it. Aguilar and the others took her the second half of the money—half had been paid up front—and exchanged it for the device. Aguilar thought it looked crude: it was a big glob of some putty-looking stuff with wires enmeshed in it, and an electronic device with a softly glowing green light on the other end of the wires. “That’s it?” he said. “I thought there would be dynamite or something.” A separate item looked like a garage door opener.

“It’s C-4,” Juliana said. “There’s a detonator in it. When you click this”—she indicated the door opener—“the detonator goes off and that’s what blows the C-4. Otherwise, you can drop it, shoot it, set it on fire, and it won’t go off. I wouldn’t recommend any of those—especially setting it on fire, because the fumes are toxic. But it’s perfectly safe and stable until it’s detonated by a primary charge. Also, it’s malleable, but don’t mess with it. Oscar said it’s in the shape you need for the result you want.” She pointed to one side. “He said to be sure this side faces your target. The detonator’s range is fifteen to twenty meters. Any closer and you’d be in danger, but any farther and it won’t connect.”

Snake-eyes had carried in the crumpled but reinforced box they would place it in, and Aguilar had brought in a briefcase full of U.S. dollars. He set the case on a table and opened it. Juliana riffled through a couple of stacks, appraising them. “Looks fine,” she said. She gave Aguilar a quick hug. “Thanks for doing business with me. I hope to see you again.”

“Me too,” Aguilar said. He hadn’t thought he would ever see her again after that first time, but it turned out that she was a handy person to know.

“Oh, how’s that knife working out for you?”

“It’s great,” he said.

“You’re the one who gave the Jaguar his claw?” Poison asked. “It’s famous now. At least, in our world.”

“Jaguar?” She smiled. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Just because I’m spotted?”

“Because you’re mysterious,” she said. “And dangerous.”

Aguilar liked the sound of that.

* * *

At four o’clock, Aguilar and the others strolled, seemingly casually, past the storm drain. Poison was carrying the box, and Aguilar had a gym bag over his shoulder with weapons inside. Just before reaching the drain, Aguilar stepped off the sidewalk and into the street. Poison followed. Aguilar paused beside the storm drain, turning this way and that, as if looking for something. On the sidewalk, Snake-eyes did the same. They were both trying to attract the attention of anyone who might otherwise notice Poison duck down and shove the box—rubber cement coating its bottom surface—into the drain.

A second later, Poison stepped back onto the curb, followed by Aguilar.

“Done,” Poison said quietly. “Let’s go to that place across the street and watch the fireworks.”

They were seated by the windows facing the road, and had their coffee on the table before Osorio’s convoy appeared down the block. Poison reached into the pocket of the light jacket he wore. The detonator, Aguilar knew, was in that pocket. Just seconds to go.

He took a sip of strong coffee, then set the mug on the table, bracing for the blast.

The front Suburban rolled to a stop at the corner. Behind it, the second one—Osorio’s—obstructed his view of the storm drain. A terrible thought occurred to him: what if the SUV’s armor blocked the radio signal from the garage door opener? Escobar would be furious.

Then a white flash drove all thoughts from his head.

Everything seemed to happen at once. Concrete soared into the air from the sidewalk above the storm drain. Windows in the nearest buildings shattered, and the front wall of the closest building buckled, stones dropping to the street. The Suburban lifted off the ground—and the pavement along with it—flipped a quarter-turn in midair, and crashed back to earth with the side facing the blast torn to shredded steel. All of it was accompanied by a deafening roar and a yellow-white fireball that seemed to shoot six meters into the air, then balloon out.

The windows of the café blew in, sending shards of glass into the patrons. Aguilar covered his face, but too late; he was vaguely aware that he’d been cut. He saw another shard jutting from his right upper arm—instinctively, he yanked it out, and blood spurted from the wound. He clapped his left hand over it, to stanch the bleeding.

Only then did he realize three things: he had been cut worse than he thought—not only the arm but his face was bleeding from multiple wounds, and his chest was bleeding through his shirt; he could barely hear anything other than a pronounced ringing in his ears; and gunmen were pouring from the front and rear Suburbans, looking for somebody to shoot.

And a fourth thing—a couple of the mercenaries went to Osorio’s overturned vehicle and helped two survivors out through what was now the upper door.

“Shit!” Snake-eyes shouted. His voice sounded distant, as though he was speaking from somewhere beneath the ocean. “That’s Osorio!”

Aguilar didn’t have to hear him to know it was true. Osorio lived, despite their efforts.

That was why they’d brought the guns. Aguilar hoisted the bag from the floor, set it on the table, and unzipped it. Each man snatched up a Mini Uzi and two extra magazines. Poison said something Aguilar couldn’t hear and stepped through the wreckage of the café’s windows. Aguilar and Snake-eyes followed.

The scene was chaos—thick smoke and flames and onlookers rushing toward them and Osorio bleeding from dozens of wounds—which kept the mercenaries from noticing them at first. They were just three more of the blast’s victims, disoriented, walking toward its epicenter. When the guns came up, the mercenaries realized their mistake and reacted, but they were too late. As they had arranged, Poison targeted Osorio while the other two raked their fire over the mercenaries. Osorio’s head exploded under Poison’s barrage.

Three of the mercenaries ducked behind the armored vehicles and returned fire, but with Osorio down, Aguilar and the others were already sprinting for the motorcycles they had left down the block. Aguilar fired over his shoulder, and when Poison reached his bike, he aimed a covering spray back toward the Suburbans.

Snake-eyes was slower to reach the motorcycles, and Aguilar saw that he was dragging his left leg. His jeans were drenched with blood. “Come on, man,” Aguilar shouted. “You’re almost there!”

Snake-eyes looked up, met his gaze—and a burst from the mercenaries’ guns tore through his back, ripping his chest into bloody chunks. He flopped forward onto the street.

“Let’s go!” Poison shouted. “He’s done!”

Aguilar didn’t want to leave Snake-eyes—the closest thing to a real friend he had among the sicarios—but Poison was right. Osorio was dead, and it was too late to do anything for Snake-eyes. If they weren’t all to die here, they had to get going. He started his bike and took off. In case of pursuit, they’d planned to take different routes back to the apartment, so he made a right at the next corner while Poison peeled left.

The cost was high, but the job was done.

To El Patrón, that was the only thing that really mattered. The rest of it was details.