But that was all supposing that Cesar Calle’s troops were prepared for such a full-frontal assault. The brashness of the attack had caught them napping, and resistance was slow to follow. It was a good half minute before guns began rattling from up on the cliff tops and already Rickard and his team were midway through the valley. Second in line in the group was a truck with an M240 belt-fed machine gun mounted on the roof. With a cyclical rate of up to 750 rounds a minute and Guarapo at the trigger, the M240 laid down a torrent of fire that kept the sentries on the cliffs from getting a clear shot. Over the roar of the machine gun Rickard could hear Guarapo swearing viciously. Not the sweet man his name suggested.

The convoy sped along the twisting route between the barricades, the fearless attack taking them beyond the defensive lines and toward the buildings. The house wasn’t dissimilar to the one back at Silva’s compound. If anything, it was larger and more luxurious. On either side were outbuildings, quarters for Calle’s people or perhaps visiting dignitaries, judging by the apparent lushness of the gardens the structures were set in.

Up on the cliff at the back of the house, rifles cracked and bullets struck sparks from the cab of the Jeep a few inches from Rickard’s head. He ducked, cursing when he noticed that Metzger stood his ground and returned fire. Who does he think he is, Rickard wondered, the goddamn Terminator?

As the Jeep lurched to a halt, Rickard vaulted over the side and sprinted quickly to the corner of one of the outbuildings. Glancing back, he saw that the German had also leaped from the stalled vehicle and was running toward cover on the far side. Bullet holes starred the windshield of the Jeep and there was a distinct lack of movement from their driver. Didn’t matter to Rickard; the driver had served his purpose in getting him close enough to assault the house.