“President Díaz is, above all else, a practical man. And many of these rebels were nothing more than outlaws before they were apprehended.” A shrug lifted his shoulders. “That will not change. Cheap labor supports the country—and you, Senator.”

It was said slyly, with a sidelong glance at him, and Brandon understood. If he expected to continue making profit from the Galena, then he could not question the method.

But it was more unsettling than he expected, to see the ragged condition of the men forced to work in the mine. Their heads were bent and they were covered with soot. A few of them wore little more than the most essential of garments, loose, tattered pants that did nothing to protect them against the cold or heat. He was sure it was even worse below the earth’s surface. At least these men had fresh air.

Victor Delgado escorted him on an inspection of the rough cars of ore ready to go to the smelter. The tour took them down into the mines and into the tunnels lit by lamplight that was thin and wavering. The eerie light against corbeled black walls and the moaning sounds of men punctuated by snarling commands from armed guards was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. A cold chill shivered down Brandon’s spine, and he moved stiffly, carefully picking his way across the rough rock passage hewn into the mountain. A misstep may well put him flat on his back—or cripple him for life.

The blunted end of his black, lacquered cane provided a steadier footing, but the dense air and lack of light made him clumsy. The sharp crack of a whip split the air, and was followed by a string of curses and a pained cry. Brandon put a hand against the wall to steady himself, suddenly sick.

“Take me back outside,” he ordered abruptly, and turned back toward the front of the mine shaft. His gaze swept over a line of men with eyes gleaming in the fitful light of glass lanterns. Like animals in the night, he thought, the same waiting, feral gaze….

Delgado escorted him to the offices where the ledgers were kept. Here, it was private. Here they could speak more frankly, he was assured.

Away from prying eyes that might report the exchange of money and collusion, he thought wryly, and took a seat behind the desk in the only comfortable chair. It left Delgado standing as if he were only a peón—which, in all truth, he was, whether he would admit it to himself or not. There was never a dearth of men ready to sell souls and country for personal gain.

“So,” the senator said, “show me the ledgers.”

Delgado’s mouth tightened slightly, but he produced the ledgers. These were the second set of books that were kept in a hidden compartment behind a heavy set of shelves, and he spread them out on the desktop.