“No accounting for taste, my friend,” Juan said, twirling a hand over his head to signal the crane operator to go ahead and lower the final car onto the dock. A harbor pilot was due to guide them out to sea shortly.

The sleek car was lowered to the crumbling concrete dock, and members of the smuggling gang unshackled the lifting sling, taking care that the steel cables didn’t scratch what Juan had to agree was a damned ugly paint choice.

The third man standing on the old freighter’s wing bridge had given his name as Angel. He was in his mid-twenties, and wore slacks of some shiny material that looked like mercury and an untucked white dress shirt. He was so thin that the outline of an automatic pistol tucked into the small of his back was obvious.

But maybe that was the point.

Then again, Juan wasn’t really concerned about a double cross. Smuggling was a business built on reputation, and one stupid move on Angel’s part would just about guarantee he’d never do another deal again.

“Okay, then, Capitão, that is it,” Angel said, and whistled down to his men.

One of them retrieved a bag from a tractor trailer’s cab and approached the gangplank while the rest started loading the hot cars into the rigs. A crew member met the smuggler at the rail and escorted him up the two flights of rusted stairs to the bridge. Juan entered with the others from outside. The only illumination came from the antique radar repeater that gave them all a sickly green pallor.

Cabrillo dialed up a little more light as the Brazilian set the bag onto the chart table. Angel’s hair cream shimmered as much as his slacks.

“The agreed-upon price was two hundred thousand dollars,” Angel said as he opened the battered duffel. That amount would almost cover the cost to buy one of the Ferraris new. “It would have been more if you had agreed to deliver three of them to Buenos Aires.”

“Forget it,” Juan said. “I’m not taking my ship anywhere near there. And good luck finding a captain who will. Hell, none would take a legit cargo into BA, let alone a bunch of stolen cars.”

When Cabrillo moved, his shin hit the edge of the table. The resulting sound was an unnatural crack. Angel eyed him warily, his hand moving slightly closer to the pistol under his shirt.

Juan made a “relax” gesture, and stooped to roll up his pant leg. About three inches below his knee, his leg had been replaced with a high-tech prosthetic that looked like something out of the Terminator movies. “Occupational hazard.”

The Brazilian shrugged.

The cash was in bundles of ten thousand. Juan divvied them up and handed half to Max, and for the next several minutes the only sound on the bridge was the soft whisper of bills being checked. They all appeared to be legitimate hundred-dollar bills.

Juan stuck out his hand, “Pleasure doing business with you, Angel.”