Eidur put both hands down in the water and pressed himself up into a sitting position. Milton couldn’t see a weapon, but he had to assume that he had one somewhere about his person.

He stepped back and covered him with the pistol. “Hands where I can see them.”

La Bruja was staring hard at him. “Who are you?”

Eidur moved his hand a little, bringing it up to the scabbard that was strapped around the top of his thigh. Milton nudged his aim a little to the left and fired. The round blasted into the stream and sent up a little plume of spray and chipped rock. The sound of the shot echoed back at them from the trees.

“Don’t do that,” Milton said.

“Why are you here?” La Bruja said.

“One of my friends died because of you. One of your sicarios in Las Vegas. He killed a man I respected. A policewoman, too, and three civilians.”

Milton saw puzzlement and then recognition in her face. “That was you?” she said. “In Italy? You killed him?”

“That was me getting started. I made a promise to my friend’s son that there would be consequences for what you did. And here we are—these are the consequences.”

Milton switched up his aim and drew a bead on Eidur. There was no more than ten feet between them; he wouldn’t be able to miss.

“Money,” La Bruja said, with a desperation that Milton had not heard in her voice before. “How much would it take?”

“For what?”

“To stop this. Ten million? Twenty?”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Milton said. “I can’t be bought.”

He slipped his finger through the guard until he could feel the solid weight of the trigger between the joints.

“Stop!”

The shout came from behind Milton. He turned his head to see a soldier who had a shotgun aimed right at him.

“Abaja. Las rodillas.”

“I speak English,” Milton said.

There was a splashing from the stream. Milton looked back and saw Eidur was halfway across it, disappearing into the darkness on the other side.

“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” the soldier said. His accent was American. “We’re everywhere. He won’t get far. Drop the weapon.”

Milton gritted his teeth.

“Last chance. Put the gun down.”

The man didn’t look as if he was the type to bluff. He levelled his shotgun right into the centre of Milton’s torso. Milton did as he was told, lowering his arm, withdrawing his finger from the trigger and letting the weapon fall to the ground.

“Get on your knees.”

Milton dropped. The shotgun was a Mossberg 590. They would be picking bits of his body out of the jungle if the soldier decided to fire it from this range.

“Face down. Hands behind your back.”