“All I’m trying to say is… Well, shit, I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful. I’m not. You didn’t have to do this.”

“We’ll have to disagree about that,” Milton said. “You ready?”

Chase nodded.

“Let’s go saddle up, then.”

2

Milton took an Uber to Rembrandtplein in Amsterdam’s central district. It was bordered on the east by Utrechtsestraat, by Reguliersdwarsstraat on the south, by Reguliersbreestraat on the north and by Halvemaansbrug on the west. As the car drew nearer to it, Milton watched and observed how the surroundings changed. Ziggy had provided a brief rundown of the area, explaining how it had originated as a farmers’ market—dairy and poultry products, mostly—before becoming better known for the orchestras and circus tents that visited in the summer months. Latterly, it had attracted artists and hedonists, cloaking itself in a bohemian vibe. It reminded Milton of East London and, like Shoreditch and Bethnal Green and Dalston, Rembrandtplein’s edge would soon be smoothed out and homogenised by the influx of capital.

Progress. Milton sighed. He found it all a little depressing.

He thought about the plan that he had worked out. He had considered starting with La Frontera’s presence on the border of Mexico and the United States, but had decided that it made more sense to look for a way into the organisation away from the heat of what had just gone down in Nevada. He had been careful, as always, but he knew that there was a chance that his likeness would have been captured in Las Vegas and that the prospect of any connection being made in Amsterdam was much lower than if he had stayed in America. He had gathered up the team—Hicks for ops, Ziggy for intel and Chase because Milton couldn’t deny him the chance to avenge his father—and had set up base here.

Ziggy had already begun his research into La Frontera’s European operations and had suggested that Amsterdam was the hub through which all business was transacted. He had used an existing hack to get into the Police National Computer, pulling as much data as he could so that he could start to pencil in the lines that connected the United Kingdom’s main distributor with his South American wholesalers. The man suspected of the dubious distinction of being the UK’s largest importer of Colombian blow was a Liverpudlian who went by the name of Anthony Jackson. Ziggy had burrowed into his file and had discovered that the police had circumstantial evidence to connect him to Juan Pablo López, La Frontera’s representative in the Netherlands.