Milton had no idea of the time. It was impossible to say how long they had been driving, but it must have been hours. He couldn’t see a thing through the hood, and, even if they had removed it, he doubted that there would be windows in the back of the truck.

The soldiers spoke amongst themselves, their voices low, but Milton caught enough of their conversations to confirm that they were definitely American and, most likely, a SEAL team. Two men to Milton’s left made reference to Little Creek and Coronado. Those were the garrisons responsible for accommodating that component of the US Naval Special Warfare Command; Milton was familiar with the former, having trained there for a month during an exchange at the beginning of his career.

He wondered whether Eidur had managed to get clear. Milton did not hear mention of the mercenaries or any other foreigners who had been caught up in the assault on the camp. Perhaps they had been able to slip through the cordon that had been thrown up. There was no way of knowing.

Milton started to hear the sounds of an urban area outside the truck. There were other cars now, the rattle of a train passing nearby, the sound of a jet overhead. A city? He tried to picture the map of the region and concluded that it could only really be Medellín. It was difficult to be sure, but he doubted that they had been travelling for more than three hours, and there were no other cities that would have been near enough to reach in that time.

The truck slowed down and turned to the right, bumping over something—a kerb, perhaps—as it left the road. The sound of the engine changed in tone, adding an echo that suggested that they were now inside a building.

The truck stopped and the roller door rattled as it was opened.

“We’re here,” a voice said. “Out you get.”

Hands grabbed Milton by the shoulders and yanked at him, dragging him along the floor to the edge of the truck. They gave him a chance to shuffle around so that he could get his feet over the edge. He was pulled out, his boots landing on a concrete floor; he saw through the gap in the hood that it was wet with puddles that glistened with little slicks of spilt oil.

“This way,” the voice said, shoving Milton ahead.

He walked on.

71

Milton was guided through the building. They left the hood on and pushed and prodded him in the directions that they wanted him to go. He tried to work out where he was, but it was impossible. All he could see was directly beneath him, and then only when he pressed his chin against his chest and looked down through the opening in the hood. The floor was still concrete, with more puddles and smears of grease and oil. It looked industrial.