The truck was parked in a clearing at the side of a narrow track. The surface of the track was mud, a series of troughs and ridges between large waterlogged patches. A river ran across the track fifty yards ahead and, beyond that, the mud looked much deeper and less penetrable. The truck had done well to get this far; it wouldn’t be able to proceed any farther. Instead, they would be travelling by way of three rugged Land Rovers. The vehicles had been hidden beneath the treeline, hidden by camouflage tarpaulins and guarded by two of the SEALs from Alpha Troop. They had prepared the vehicles for their onward journey, driving them out of cover so that Bravo Troop could transfer into them.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” Lieutenant Commander McCoy called out.

Ellie hauled herself into the back of the Land Rover at the rear of the formation. It was going to be a tight squeeze again, and she was pressed up against the door as two brawny SEALs slid onto the bench seat next to her. They had already daubed their skin with camouflage paint, and they both had night-vision goggles on swivel mounts that were attached to their helmets.

“How long to the RV from here?” Ellie said to the driver.

“An hour in the Land Rover and then an hour on foot.”

The lead vehicle started its engine and bumped ahead on the road, and each of the vehicles in line followed along. They splashed through the river, water spraying out on either side, and then settled into a steady pace as they headed deeper into the jungle.

59

Milton and the others rode on until they reached a clearing. Geronimo brought his horse to a stop and dismounted. Hector and Eidur slid from their horses, too, and waited for Milton to do the same. Geronimo tied the horses to a hitching post.

“Is this it?” Milton asked.

“Nearly,” del Pozo said. “Just a short walk.”

Milton turned to see Geronimo making his way deeper into the jungle. Del Pozo followed, gesturing for Milton to stay close. Eidur waited to bring up the rear. The path was hardly there at all, the kind of trail that might have been made by an animal, only just passable for a person.

“Campesino families have their own crops out here,” del Pozo said as they pushed through the undergrowth. “Sometimes they grow their own, sometimes they buy the leaves from other farmers. The clever ones—the ones who want to make money, like Geronimo—they set up their own kitchens to process the leaves, turn it into paste. El Centro works with these families—we buy the paste that they make. Sometimes, with the more successful kitchens, the cartel will buy the locals out and take over.”

“And when the locals don’t want to do that?”

“That doesn’t happen,” del Pozo said. “You don’t say no to the cartel.”