He decided that Ramon, if that was his real name, must indeed be with DeVane--but the suddenly aggressive look in the man's eyes, the deft speed with which he'd produced his concealed weapon, and the particular model of gun he was using were all indications that he was no mere chauffeur. While conducting anti-drug operations in Bolivia and elsewhere in South America, DEA and U.S. Special Forces units had recruited and trained in-country field commandos who knew the territory and were able to speak the language. After completing their mandatory one-year tours of duty these natives--many of whom had blood ties to the coca farmers and distributors--would often put their skills and inside knowledge of narco police tactics up for sale to the cartels they had once sworn to oppose.

Eduardo cursed himself for a fool. His uncle was a respected lieutenant in the DeVane organization, and he had assumed it was Vicente, acting out of familial loyalty, who had brought about his release. But it could have been DeVane who'd engineered it. Must have been. And for reasons that, it seemed, were far from benign.

His face paling, Eduardo did as he had been instructed. Almost before he had exited the vehicle, Ramon was out his own door. He hurried around to Eduardo's side, grabbed him roughly by the arm with one hand, and shoved him along toward the building's corrugated metal door, the Sig pistol jammed against the back of his head.

There was an intercom beside the entrance. Ramon leaned toward it, pushed a button under the speaker, and announced himself, his gun held steady. An instant later the door rose clankily on its metal tracks.

Ramon prodded Eduardo through the entrance with the Sig and followed him inside. Then the door rattled down behind them, shutting out the daylight. Eduardo found himself thrown into sudden gloom. The air was stale and warm. Incandescent lightbulbs on the ceiling, covered by simple metal grills, seemed to propagate rather than dispel the interior shadows.

Ramon forced him to keep moving. As his pupils adjusted to the dimness, Eduardo glanced from side to side, and noticed the shipping crates on wooden pallets stacked all around him. Just as he had suspected, a warehouse. He guessed it was a hundred feet deep and twice as wide.

Then he looked straight ahead of him, saw the group of men waiting in the cleared-out space at the end of the aisle, and felt a sharp jab of fear. Only two were seated, the backs of their chairs against the bare unpainted walls. Vicente was one of them. Although Eduardo had never met him in person, he knew the slightly built American in the incongruous white suit seated to his uncle's right was Harlan DeVane. On either side of them stood a pair of guards holding short-barreled Micro Uzi assault rifles.

The tall, muscular man standing rigidly in front of the others, his chiseled face impassive, was DeVane's chief lieutenant, Siegfried Kuhl.