“We know that your business is just a front,” I said. “You can masquerade as a security consultancy, but the truth is that you supply mercenaries to those willing to pay your fees. It’s well known that you’re indiscreet about the kind of people you serve.”

“Listen to me, Hunter. Doesn’t matter what you think . . . This has nothing to do with me.”

“Stop screaming like a bitch,” I snapped. “Now, we have two names; Jean Shrier and Ben Le Duke. Where are they now?”

“I’m not telling you that. I have a duty of care to those who work for me. You can’t expect me to divulge classified information.”

“You will unless you fancy takin’ a dive through that window,” Rink said.

I grabbed hold of his chair and dragged it back to his desk. The computer had avoided the crashing fall to the floor that had cleared the rest of his workspace. “Bring up their files, Wetherby.”

“Don’t need to. Neither of them are who you’re looking for.”

“Where are they?”

Wetherby sighed. His eyes went to the loose pile of unconscious men littering his office. “You didn’t get this from me, okay?”

“Just get on with it,” I said.

“Shrier’s got a gig protecting a Hong Kong businessman. Le Duke, he’s over in Nigeria protecting an oil field. I told you . . . they’re not involved.”

I pulled out a photograph supplied to me by Walter.

“Him?”

“Don’t know the guy.”

“Look again,” I ordered. “He was a pilot. Miguel Suarez. Did he work for you?”

Wetherby picked up on the past tense.

“He’s dead?”

“A bullet in the skull kinda has that effect on most folks,” Rink said. His words were loaded and Wetherby picked up on that too.

Wetherby shook his head. “Still don’t know him.”

“You don’t seem to know very much,” I said. “For such a top guy as you think you are.”

He shrugged and I could see he was beginning to gather a little composure. “I told you that all along.”

“You’re still a prick.”

He gave me a sickly smile. “You’re wrong about me. In every way.”

“Just hope that I never find out otherwise, Wetherby. If I have to come back again, things will be much worse next time.”

I punched him directly in his face, aiming to cause pain rather than unconsciousness. Let him dwell on that for a while.

We left Wetherby tending his bleeding face. Back outside the office building we stood side by side and looked out across the water toward Miami Beach. It was early in the morning in late February, and here in the subtropics it was unseasonably warm, but I felt very cold.

“Dead end,” I said to Rink.

“It was always a long shot. At least you taught Wetherby not to fuck with you again.”