“Here,” the voice behind him said, pushing him through a doorway.

Milton stumbled forward, was held in place and then pulled back. The backs of his knees bumped against the wooden seat of a chair and he sat down. Something was used to cut through the plastic restraints but, before Milton could even begin to massage his aching wrists, strong hands grabbed his forearms and fresh restraints were applied, fastening his wrists to the arms of the chair.

The hood was left on.

“All right, shitbird. I’ve got some questions and you’d better answer them.”

“Please. I don’t understand—”

“Who are you?”

“Can you take this off? I can’t see—”

“Who are you?”

“John Smith.”

“Really? John Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“Please—take the hood off.”

“No.”

“Where am I?”

“I ask the questions.”

“I want to see someone from my embassy.”

“I don’t care what you want.”

“You can’t just hold me here.”

“Really?”

“I want to speak to someone.”

“You got a short memory, buddy? You forgotten where you were last night? No, no—don’t answer. Let me tell you—you were in the rainforest at a cocaine laboratory run by a drug cartel. You remember that?”

“I want to speak to someone from the British embassy.”

“And, get this, you were at the lab at the same time as the woman who runs the cartel. This woman—she’s pretty much the most wanted woman in the world. Apart from running the cartel, which would put her at the top of the list all by herself, she’s responsible for the murder of the US ambassador in Bogotá. So, all that being said, you can see why we’re really fucking interested in why someone like you would be in a place like that. And—between you and me—asking to speak to someone from your embassy just ain’t gonna cut it. You need to start answering my questions or things are gonna get worse for you, and fast.”

“Embassy.”