La Bruja told Milton and del Pozo to follow her, and led the way to a second hut a little way from the main kitchen. It looked as if it had been built as somewhere for the workers to come to rest: there was power from a generator and a refrigerator stocked with bottled water and cans of soda. The woman opened the fridge, took out three bottles and handed one each to Milton and del Pozo, keeping the third for herself.

Milton unscrewed the cap of his bottle and took a long swig of water. “Thank you.”

“It’s hot for you?” the woman said.

“Very.”

“The English weather—cold and wet, si?”

“More often than not,” Milton said, trying to ignore the fact that he was engaged in banal small talk with the most powerful narcotraficante in the world.

“Sit,” she said, indicating a clear space on the floor. “We will talk.”

Milton sat down and crossed his legs. He looked around. Del Pozo stood off to one side, sipping his water; his natural garrulousness had been stymied now that La Bruja had taken over the conversation. Milton assessed his options. He knew that he would be able to take del Pozo out, and, if he did that, he would be able to separate him from the pistol that he wore in the holster that was clipped to his belt. He was carrying a Springfield XDM, so, assuming that he kept it fully loaded, Milton would have nineteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. La Bruja would have time to raise the alarm, of course, and Milton was very aware of the men with automatic rifles that he had seen at the boundary of the camp. The big Scandinavian, too; he could clearly handle himself.

Would he be able to kill del Pozo and the woman?

Probably.

Would he be able to escape?

Probably not.

It didn’t matter. Milton had the chance to take out two members of the cartel’s senior management. He knew that he wouldn’t get a better chance than this, and he was happy to take his chances after that.

He kept an eye on del Pozo as La Bruja sat with her back against the wall of the shack.

She gestured to del Pozo. “Hector says you want to do business with us.”

“I do.”

“And you spoke to López in Amsterdam.”

“Yes.”

“And he told you that we already had an arrangement with a distributor in your country.”

“Anthony Jackson,” del Pozo offered, coming a little closer. Milton watched him in his peripheral vision, keen not to reveal how much interest he had in him and the pistol at his belt.

“That’s right,” she said. “Señor Jackson. I met him once. A fanfarrón—do you know this word?”

Milton shrugged. “I don’t.”

“A braggart,” del Pozo said.