Milton told her the whole story. He started in Vegas, with how he had been fooled by the Russos into helping them get away from the cartel with the money that they had stolen from them. He explained how, during the double-cross, Beau Baxter had been shot and then, over the course of the next couple of days, how the cartel sicario who had been dispatched to find the missing money and punish the thieves had murdered Beau in cold blood. He explained how he had followed the Russos to their bolthole in Tuscany and, using them as bait, had lain in wait for the hitman to make his appearance.

“And he did?” she asked.

“He did.”

“And?”

Milton shrugged, finding it difficult to admit to her what he had done to the man.

She didn’t press. “It doesn’t explain how you ended up in the jungle with La Bruja.”

“The sicario pulled the trigger, but he didn’t give the order. He caused chaos in Vegas—it wasn’t just Beau who suffered. There was a police officer, her girlfriend, a security guard… I’ve had dealings with the cartels before. They think that they can do whatever they want. Who’s going to come after them?”

“You?”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Ellie. I’ll never be able to make up for them. I want to, but…” He thought of the ninth step, of making amends, and how, for him, it was impossible. “I can’t atone for my past, but I can try to make a difference now. I travel around a lot. And I try to help the people I meet. They’re usually the little guys—the ones who get pushed around by those with money or power or influence. This felt different. This isn’t a bully. This isn’t the drug dealer on the corner, threatening his neighbours. This is much more than that—this is where the drug dealer gets his drugs. I can help a lot of people, all at once, by shutting La Bruja down.”

“And get revenge for your friend.”

“Justice,” Milton corrected.

“Right,” she said. She paced. “How did you get to here?”

Milton explained how he had followed the cocaine’s supply chain backwards: from Anthony Jackson’s retail operation in Manchester, to López’s wholesaling in Amsterdam, and eventually to distribution and production in South America.

“And you did all this on your own?”

“I put a little team together. A couple of friends I used to work with and the son of my friend.”

“They weren’t in the jungle, though. We would’ve picked them up.”

“I don’t know where they are. The cartel flew me out to a finca and I doubt they know. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t even know where we are. Medellín?

“Yes,” she said. “A safe house.”