The driver leaned against the tailgate of the Land Rover, folding his arms on his chest in a copy of Rickard’s stance. The man from the back stood with a thumb tucked into his belt. Rickard saw a cast on the man’s forearm, poking out from under the cuff of his sleeve. The third man walked toward him, extending a hand in greeting. Rickard didn’t take it, just observed the man from behind his sunglasses. Finally he unfolded his arms, but only to reach up and push the shades back on his head.

Kenneth Wetherby didn’t know what to do with his hand and it took him a second or two to withdraw it. He rubbed his palm down the thigh of his trousers, leaving a damp smear on the material.

“You brought what I wanted?” Rickard stared at the livid bruise on the man’s face.

Wetherby nodded at the man standing by the Land Rover and he unlocked and dropped the tailgate. He leaned inside and pulled a large plastic trunk toward him, flipped open the lid. He stepped away as Rickard approached, crossing his arms again. Rickard knew the man’s pose wasn’t as nonchalant as it looked: there was a gun in a shoulder rig inside his jacket.

Rickard took a quick glance in the box. “How current is this?”

Behind him, Wetherby said, “Brand-new issue. Have a contact at SWAT who moonlights for me off and on.”

Rickard nodded, satisfied. When he turned around, Wetherby took a step backward, he’d been so close. “Quite a mess Hunter made of your face, Ken.”

Wetherby touched the swelling under his eye. “Asshole sucker punched me.”

Rickard grunted, taking in the scrapes on the face of the man with his arms folded, the broken arm of the other. “He sucker punched the three of you?”

“He had help.” Wetherby scowled, touched the swelling again. “I took this for you, Rickard. He wanted me to tell him who you were.”

“So you told him?”

All three men stirred uncomfortably, a sign of the lies to follow.

“No way,” Wetherby said. “Why’d you think he hit me?”

“Just wondering how he happened to turn up in Colombia. Bit of a coincidence, huh?”

“Don’t know how he did it, but does it really matter now? He’s dead, right?”

“Blown to hell,” Rickard said.

“Good fuckin’ riddance, I say.”

“You said that he had help?”

“Jared Rington.”

“A tall black guy?”

“No. A Jap.”

“Odd name for an oriental.”

“Goes by Rink. He’s a PI outa Tampa. Hunter worked with him, did the dirty work when required.”

“So who’s the black guy?”

“Don’t know any black guy,” Wetherby said.