Rickard shrugged. It paid to know who he might be going up against, but maybe the point was immaterial. He fully expected that Rink and the black guy hadn’t made it out of Cesar Calle’s house alive. The German mercenary, Metzger, looked like he was their equal, plus he had more than a dozen others to back him up.

Out of nowhere, Rickard said, “I killed Gutierrez.”

Wetherby exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “He was your ticket, man. Why’d you do that?”

“He was playing both sides: sooner or later he’d have betrayed me. I don’t tolerate betrayal.”

His words were loaded and Wetherby wasn’t too slow to pick up on that.

“I didn’t tell Hunter where to find you.”

Rickard ignored him. He looked inside the plastic box again. “The SWAT guy; he didn’t ask why you wanted these?”

“I pay him enough that he doesn’t ask.”

“Even if I’m going up against his own people?”

“Like I said, he takes the money and he doesn’t ask.”

“Good enough.” Rickard nodded. “Weapons?”

This time the man with the cast on his arm opened the rear door of the Land Rover. Pulling out a long black lacquered case from the backseat, he unsnapped clips and swung open the lid, holding it like an emissary bearing gifts to a foreign court.

“Same rifle I used in Tampa,” Rickard noted. “I thought you were going to get rid of it, Ken.”

“There was no chance that the cops would find it. They were looking for Hunter. No way that they would come to my office.”

“Hunter did.”

“He had no idea I’d hired you on behalf of the Colombians. He was just clutching at straws when he turned up.”

“But you didn’t tell him anything.” Lifting out the M–40A3 bolt-action rifle, Rickard studied it. The gun was an original Remington 700, extensively remodeled by United States Marine Corps armorers. It had a five-round detachable box magazine and telescopic sights. Spare 7.62 x 51 mm NATO rounds were arranged in the lining of the case, alongside a long suppressor. The cartridges he’d used when killing the two cops, Castle and Soames, had been replaced. He put the rifle back into the box and closed the lid. Placed it on the ground.

He turned slowly to look at Wetherby.

“It’s going to be difficult carrying the rifle while driving a motorcycle.” Rickard scratched idly at his lower back while thinking the problem over. “I’m going to have to take the Land Rover.”

“What? Leave us out here? No way.”

Rickard pulled out his gun. Back in Dr Rothman’s office he’d primed the weapon, screwing a suppressor in place. “I’m taking it.”