Chapters (61)
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
- Chapter Forty-Four
- Chapter Forty-Five
- Chapter Forty-Six
- Chapter Forty-Seven
- Chapter Forty-Eight
- Chapter Forty-Nine
- Chapter Fifty
- Chapter Fifty-One
- Chapter Fifty-Two
- Chapter Fifty-Three
- Chapter Fifty-Four
- Chapter Fifty-Five
- Chapter Fifty-Six
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
Vargas glanced at his watch, then grabbed his mobile and scrolled through his contacts. “There’s no time to head back, but there may be another way. One of my team commutes every day on a very fast BMW bike. It’s only six forty-five, so he’ll still be at home, and he only lives a few minutes from the temporary station where I’ve left a spare set of keys. With luck, he could have time to pick them up, get to my apartment, collect the laptop and then weave his way through the gridlock before we take off. It’s the best I can offer.”
“Cheers, Nic. If he doesn’t make it, you gain a new Mac.”
Vargas briefed Detective Alex Martin, who relished the challenge, and within seconds of ending the call was donning his black leathers.
* * *
The black Mercedes Sprinter parked up on the Avenida Santa Fe at precisely 7.15 a.m. Hakim and Ahmed Saadi sat in the back and ran through their final checks of the complex military-grade equipment they were about to operate in one of Buenos Aires’ busiest districts. The two Algerian brothers had served in the People’s National Army before becoming independent assassins. They owned a huge warehouse in Morocco, crammed full of armaments capable of starting a small war. The two C90 RPGs in the back of the van were designed to take out heavily fortified tanks and a single round could penetrate twenty-four-inch-thick concrete from a range of one thousand yards. The target they were about to attack was no more than fifty feet away. It was the apartment block directly across the road from where they were parked. Hakim and Ahmed secured their respective fibreglass launch tubes into place and adjusted the leather shoulder straps.
Detective Martin pulled up outside the front of Vargas’s eight-storey apartment block and switched off the engine of his blue BMW 1200 GS bike. He ran through the glass-fronted entrance and opted for the stairs rather than the lift to reach his chief’s third-floor apartment. At the same moment, Hakim opened the sliding door on the side of the van and Ahmed moved into position alongside him. They already knew they had a perfect sight line to the kitchen and bedroom areas of their target’s apartment and were aiming at both. The brothers made final tweaks to their optical sights and prepared to fire.