Walter had organized us rooms at a hotel in downtown Miami, and the limousine dropped us on the third level of a parking garage. We entered the hotel via a connecting walkway and it was now late enough in the evening that we didn’t attract too much attention. We were still in the clothing we’d worn during the battle in Colombia, and mine in particular was a mess. What glances we did get from the patrons and staff were of the raised-eyebrow variety, but there was no fear. Maybe they thought we were business executives returning from a team-building exercise and the dried blood on my clothing was paintball splatter. Walter and Bryce in their suits added to the look: the older chief execs pardoned the physical stuff and turning up later for brandy and cigars. All that was missing were the call girls.

Hubbard stayed with the limo, heading off to coordinate the effort between the Hostage Rescue Team and the corresponding Miami-Dade police commander. I was glad that he had gone. Now we could make our own plans without watching our words. We headed for the elevator and up to the uppermost level fifteen floors above. Two of Walter’s bodyguards trailed behind, and judging by their cool glances they were a little miffed that their mark felt more comfortable when flanked by me or Rink. They were professional enough not to complain, even when Walter made them wait outside in the hall.

The CIA expenses bill would shoot up by thousands of dollars, judging by the opulence of the rooms. Walter had secured the entire floor and we had our pick of four different rich men’s apartments. We went off to separate en suite bathrooms to clean up while Walter and Bryce settled in the fourth room, organizing to meet there when I’d scrubbed the blood and stink from my body. When I came out of the shower, I found new jeans, T-shirt and underwear, a pair of boots and a leather jacket lying on the bed. There was even a clinical waste sack to dump my old clothes in, the sack destined for an incinerator someplace. Putting on the fresh clothes made me feel ten times better, but then that might actually have been an effect of the copious amounts of painkillers I swallowed earlier on the flight back.

My hair damp, I went back across the hall, shared a joke with the two bodyguards, which helped relax them a little, then went inside Walt’s room.

“You fall asleep in the bath, Hunter?”

The stench of death had taken some expunging, and shampoo and soap had struggled to shift it, but maybe I had lingered under the shower longer than usual. I’d been trying to wash away the sight of Jimena Grajales screaming in sheer hatred as she’d tried to shoot me. I smiled at Rink’s jibe, though.