“Not just her,” Weaver said. He took out his phone, laid it on the table and swiped the screen until a picture of a woman was visible. She was attractive, mid-thirties, with dark hair that seemed to have a natural wave to it. “Her, too.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Ellie Flowers. She’s the FBI lead in the operation against the cartel. The CIA want to know how much the bureau knows.”

“Anyone else? What about the Americans?”

“No witnesses,” Weaver said. “Take them out.”

83

Ellie paced the floor of the office above the garage. It was just coming up to nine and that was the hour that they had decided to move. She went to the window, standing at the side so as not to present an obvious silhouette, and looked out. This part of Medellín was quiet, with just the occasional car and pedestrian. A chequerboard of lights shone in the apartment block on the other side of the road, and there was a little clutch of young men on the corner; she could see the red tips of their cigarettes and hear the sound of their raucous laughter. A lone prostitute leaned against the trunk of one of the trees that separated the road from the apartment building, her face lit by the glow of her phone as she waited in vain for business.

“Are you okay?”

She turned. Milton was standing in the doorway.

“I’m good,” she said. “A little on edge.”

“I’m not surprised. But nerves are good.”

“I’ve done this before,” she said.

“I know you have.”

She turned back to the window again and gazed out. “This guy you say the cartel killed.”

“What about him?”

“Was he a good friend?”

“I don’t have many good friends,” he said.

“But he was?”

“One of my better friends. He helped me out more than once. And he was murdered because he helped me.”

“So, you’re here for what? Revenge?”

“I told you—justice,” Milton said.

Ellie turned to face him again. “Why do you feel you have to do this? You could’ve left it to the police. It was the same in Michigan. You didn’t know those kids. Why would you do that? It’s not as if you were going to get paid for it—not then, not now.”

“I told you,” he said.

“I know. You’ve done bad things. Shit, John—I’ve done bad things, but you wouldn’t find me chasing narcos around a place like this.”

“There’s bad,” he said, “and then there’s bad. I decided, when I stopped doing what I used to do, that I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I’ve done. To make amends.”

“Even if it gets you killed?”

He shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

“You were lucky in the jungle,” she said. “You could easily have been shot.”