A heavy hand is on his shoulder, squeezing hard. Wenner turns. It’s the tanned man that he’s certain is from the CIA, and the man leans into him and says, “Move out of this chair and I’ll snap your neck, son.”

The two civilians at the desk look stunned. Colonel Denton is slumped in his chair. General Sawyer and Colonel Patrick from JAG are looking at each other, as if to say, What now? And Major Wenner is sitting like a carved chunk of wood, face pale, and the tanned civilian man has a hand squeezing his right shoulder. That man is looking at me with hard and knowledgeable eyes.

I clear my throat.

“Any questions?”

CHAPTER 92

CHAPTER 92

PELAYO ABBOUD wakes up with a start, wondering where he is, and then he instantly relaxes. He’s in a luxurious leather seat in one of his several private jets, somewhere over Mexican airspace. He sighs. At his side is a tumbler of Buchanan’s whiskey and ice cubes, and he picks it up and takes a satisfying sip. His usual drink is native Coca-Cola, but this drink is part of a celebration.

He made it out of the States just an hour ago, having spent three days hiding out at a private airfield near Beachside and having the wound in his lower right leg cleaned and dressed.

A lot of things went to hell, but he’s alive and breathing and on this jet, and there’s plenty of good work waiting to be done.

Across from him, also sitting in the same type of deep leather seat, is Casper Khourery, who is reading that day’s Miami Herald. Pelayo reaches out with a foot, gently kicks Casper’s shin.

He looks up. “Yes, jefe?”

“How soon before we land?”

Casper looks at his big watch. “About ten minutes, jefe.”

“Very good.” He looks over at the mountainous and rough terrain of his home nation, and thinks of the riches he and others have managed to wrest from this desperate land. Despite the setbacks, his crew will soon be doing the same in Afghanistan. That poor nation produces 90 percent of the world’s opium, and Pelayo plans to grab his share and expand his market beyond the Americas.

He finishes his drink. A very small part of him wishes the old man was alive to see what his cursed son has been able to do, and a very large part of him is looking forward to letting the other cartels and other family members know that he, Pelayo Abboud, would never, ever give up in his quest.

There’s a soft thump-thump as the landing gear is lowered, and Pelayo puts the empty glass down, tightens his seat belt.

He says, “You did good work there, in Beachside, keeping your cool, doing what had to be done.”