I was no special agent like Bryce Lang, I was just one of the grunts sent in when the agents had done their work. Assassin isn’t a term I favor, but I suppose that all depends on which end of the gun you’re looking down. When you’ve killed for a living, it’s something that you can’t leave behind—however hard you try. I’ve tried to hide from my past, but it’s a pointless exercise because the violence always seems to find me. I’m not seen as an assassin now; these days people call me a vigilante.

I don’t care for that term either.

However, my ethos is simple: there’s no room in this world for people prepared to make the lives of others miserable. When I was a soldier, my enemies were sadistic, brutal and immoral people and I had no qualms about putting them down. Stripped bare, bullies are just bullies, and the only way I know to stop a bully is to stand up to them. If that makes me a vigilante then so be it.

“Someone from your past has come back to haunt you,” I offered.

“Someone from our past, Hunter.”

I looked across at him and we locked gazes. “Colombia?”

Had to be Colombia. It was the only time we’d worked together.

Now I was the one checking my mirrors for a tail.

Chapter 7

7

Bogota, Colombia, had two faces. One was made up of modern high-rise towers, as affluent a district as boasted by any other major city in the civilized world. The second was that area that sprawled on the western edge of the city, where people lived in squalor that rivaled the worst ghettos anywhere. There people existed. No other term was applicable to their lives. There was no money, little food, poor sanitation and homes made from wood and sheet metal and anything else that could be scavenged. It was a city that summed up for me the very reason for battling against the corrupt people of the earth. I couldn’t stand by and watch children starve to death, knowing that little more than a few miles away there were evil people growing fat on their misery. The thought sullied my conscience.