Guarapo halted the truck at a checkpoint. He exchanged pleasantries with the two men armed with assault rifles who pulled the temporary sawhorse blockade aside and waved them through. As the truck again picked up speed, Rickard watched the guardsmen muscle the barricade back in place. He couldn’t help but think that—for the hidden base of a feared death squad—security was woefully inadequate. If he chose to invade this place he could slip inside, kill Silva and be gone again without anyone noticing.

Guarapo drove the truck over a hill and down into a valley. Trees clung to the slopes, their canopies almost, but not quite, concealing the camp below from aerial observation. Buildings had been erected under the trees, all except for a large white hacienda-type structure standing in its own field. As they drove past, Rickard studied the number of men and vehicles mingling among the trees. Maybe getting in undetected wouldn’t be as easy as he’d first assumed.

With a crunch of gravel under the tires, Guarapo brought the truck to a halt. He banged his hand on the cab wall, shouting in his native language. His voice was garbled but emphatic: out now.

Rickard climbed down, hitching his bag on his shoulder, then walked toward the large ranch house. His guards rushed to surround him.

“Easy, gang,” Rickard said. “We’re all friends here.”

It seemed that Guarapo was the only one of the four who could speak English. Rickard could have conversed with them all in Spanish, but he didn’t care to.

“You must give up your weapons before you meet with Señor Silva.”

Rickard shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Sugar.”

Guarapo was the name of a local drink laced with sugar, a delicacy that was sickly sweet to some palates. It didn’t much fit the man’s demeanor.

He squinted at Rickard from below his lumpy eyebrows. Not so much at his refusal to hand over his weapons but at the use of the nickname that Rickard chose. “You know of me?”

“I’ve heard your name mentioned, yes.” Rickard didn’t expound. He simply continued to walk.

“Then you will know I am not a man to be ignored, marricon.”

Rickard grunted at the man’s choice of words. He was anything but a faggot. He chose instead to respond to the man’s insult by ignoring him.

Guarapo grasped hold of Rickard’s elbow, tugging him to a stop. “No me jodas! You are making a mistake if you think I’m someone to be disregarded like this.”