By the time the wheels touched down at the small, private airstrip an hour outside of Bogotá, neither of us was feeling any pain. Oliver had been trying to sober us up for the past two hours of the flight, urging us to drink some coffee or eat something. But I was enjoying the numbness too much.

Two of my guards were with me, and they exited first. I grumbled when Otto returned and said everything looked good. Jet stood, only stumbling slightly as we headed for the stairs. On the tarmac, a black Jeep was already waiting. A man with dark hair and a weathered face who was closer to Jet’s age than my own stood with my second guard. Nardo usually acted as my driver, but if I had to go out of town, I always brought him. No one could replace Pietro, but Nardo was who I trusted the most now that my other guard was gone. The two of them just stood there watching us, the man I didn’t know looking less than impressed.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jet grumbled when we reached them, his eyes narrowing as he sized up the stranger. “Why do you look familiar?”

“Mr. Hannigan.” The weathered man inclined his head slightly. “My name is Guzman. Your son sent me to pick up you and Vitucci.”

“He’s the head of security for Ramirez,” Nardo muttered beside me, sobering both of us up in a rush.

“Fuck,” Jet muttered. “Now I remember where I know you from. You met us at the gate when we came for Manuel Ramirez’s head.”

Guzman bowed his head again. “That was me.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jet looked at me as if I knew the answer. “What are we doing with one of Ramirez’s men? Who the fuck is running his business now?”

“I haven’t kept up with who inherited everything since Cali died. You’ll have to ask your son that. He’s the one who sent him to pick us up.” I nodded toward the Jeep as I turned back to Guzman. “We won’t all fit in there.”

“There is a second car,” Guzman said, indicating a car coming in the distance. “I’m to take you and your men to the house. But Mr. Hannigan’s presence has been requested elsewhere.”

“I’m not leaving him.” I stepped into his space. “I don’t know you, and since you work for Ramirez, I sure as fuck don’t trust you.”

“Garret Hannigan trusts me,” Guzman said with a slight smirk. “So does his mother.”

At the mention of his wife, Jet pulled me away and got in Guzman’s face himself. Grabbing the man’s shirt in both hands, he jerked him closer. “Felicity?” he rasped. “You know where my wife is? Stop playing around and take me to her. Now!”

“The car coming will take you straight to her,” Guzman told him in his thickly accented English, unaffected by the wildness in the drunk man’s eyes. “Alone. Vitucci is to go to the house. Obviously, he needs to sleep off the case of vodka he’s drowned himself in.”