In recent years Colombia had been in internal strife. Senators and congressmen and even high-ranking members of the secret police had been arrested and tried by the Supreme Court for various crimes, including corruption, extortion, funding paramilitary groups and even ordering murder. The president himself hadn’t escaped suspicion and neither had his alleged ties to the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, known locally as the AUC. For some time now the AUC had been in peace negotiations with the government, but there still remained breakaway groups headed by men like Alvaro Silva. People talked about the cartels when in fact more of the cocaine making its way to North America was trafficked by these paramilitary groups. Silva had no love for Rickard’s previous employer and would gladly help him wipe out a major rival.

Guarapo drove the pickup like he owned the roads, honking the horn and demanding right of way whenever he came across another vehicle. There was an excessive amount of braking and swerving and driving with two wheels along the shoulder of the road. Rickard had a feeling that some of the driver’s aggressive actions were meant to unsettle him in the back. Rickard didn’t let his discomfort show; he simply sat with his ankles crossed and his hands folded in his lap, smiling wistfully. His armed guards didn’t fare so well. They rocked and bounced with each lurch of the vehicle.

The journey took them north through land that alternated between arable pastures and untamed forest. On one occasion Guarapo slowed down as a convoy of vehicles sped by in the other direction. The convoy was made up of buses full of workers destined for coca plantations. They were traveling under guard of Jungla troopers to rip the plants out of the ground and dispose of them. Rickard heard Guarapo swearing savagely from the front. In situations like this, he guessed, Guarapo and his men would follow the workers and try to pick them off from sniper positions on the hillsides. Stuck with transporting him, they had no option but to trust the land mines they’d sown among the coca leaves to derail the effort.

An hour later the truck plodded its way up a winding track overlooking a river valley. Everything here was green and dripping wet. Rickard still kept his cool even when his guards began to sweat and squirm uncomfortably. Both men had stopped watching him some time back and had started a low conversation, muttering and cursing in their native tongue. A few of their comments were aimed surreptitiously his way. But now he noticed that both men had fallen silent. They were approaching their destination and the men were once again preparing themselves to take him under their weapons to their vaunted leader.