I felt uncomfortable about taking out Abadia where there was the potential for innocents to be caught in the cross fire. It was bad enough that Jimena was here, let alone the occasional civilian who wandered along the street past the house. But I had my orders and that was that. Collateral damage was apparently acceptable if it meant stemming the flood of cocaine to the Western world.

We were wearing covert earpieces, and over the scrambled channel I heard Victor announce that Abadia’s white Lincoln town car had been spotted heading our way. Victor had other DAS agents—the Colombian equivalent of secret police—in the field, watching all points of ingress.

“Two in the vehicle: driver and escort,” Victor announced in an accent redolent of his heritage. “They should be with you in thirty seconds.”

Six to five, the odds were growing in Abadia’s favor. If Jimena was a player, that meant the odds were one-on-one, but I didn’t consider that too long. I didn’t make war on women.

“Okay, we’re rolling,” Bryce said into the mike taped to his throat.

From behind our left shoulders came the white town car. We hunched down in our seats, Jack Schilling reaching for the Heckler & Koch MP5A3 submachine gun located under his seat. It was a variant of the usual MP5, with collapsible stock and chambered for 9 mm rounds. It was favored for close-quarter battle and hostage rescue scenarios because the 9 mm ammo was less likely to go through walls and hit the hostages. It also fit nicely beneath the seat of a car and could be brought quickly into play where the longer MP5 would require more maneuverability. Armed with my sidearm, I’d be the man designated to hit Abadia, while it was Jack’s responsibility to lay down enough rounds to keep his protectors’ heads down. Bryce brought out his service pistol, a Beretta, and jacked a round into the chamber. His gun was to be used for defense only, as in effect he was our getaway driver and was no good to us if he was engaged in the fire fight.

The Lincoln rolled up outside Jimena’s house on fat tires. The house door cracked open and two men stepped outside. Neither of them was Abadia. They were tall, slim men, dark haired, dark skinned. I noticed their predatory eyes as they swept the street for any sign of danger. They weren’t taking any chances; they were already armed with 7.62 mm Israeli-made Galil automatic rifles.