He dabbed the brakes and drifted back a little. He didn’t want to get too close and give himself away to whoever was in charge of that convoy. They didn’t really have a plan. They didn’t even know who Milton was with, save that it had to be something to do with the cartel. The exit from the safe house had taken them by surprise, and now they were just treading water until they could get it all figured out.

He settled in behind the Duster and watched.

87

Number Eight reached down into his lap and picked up the balaclava. He pulled it over his head and dragged it down so that only his eyes were showing. Number Two did the same. They were in a Dodge Journey at the junction of Calle 32 and Carrera 32. The minivan was sluggish and a struggle to drive, but that was of no concern. Eight wasn’t intending on using the vehicle to chase the convoy; he had another part to play.

This was the spot that One had selected for them. It was a good choice: no space to run off on either side of the road and, whereas it had been two lanes up until this point, work to resurface the road had meant that the inside lane was sealed off. The asphalt had been scraped off by a bulldozer that had then been left to block the road. The result was that there was only one lane for twenty metres, with no way for a car to overtake anything that was in its way.

Eight waited. The engine rumbled and the vibration caused the crucifix on a chain that had been hooked around the stem of the rear-view mirror to swing to and fro.

He saw the first car—the Chevrolet—and released the brake.

The Dodge rumbled out of the turn. He wrestled the wheel around and pressed the gas pedal all the way down to the floor. The Duster was close by, but not so close that Eight couldn’t turn in ahead of it. The driver of the SUV sounded his horn, and Eight held up his hand in apology.

“Eight, channel. In position. Get ready to close the door.”

* * *

McCoy swore. “Ah, shit.”

Ellie looked ahead, saw that he was looking into the rear-view, and looked back herself. The Duster was no longer there. Its place had been taken by a red Dodge Journey minivan.

“Shit,” McCoy said again. “He’s got in between us.”

Milton looked back, too. “You need to get off this road.”

“We can’t,” McCoy said. “This is the fastest route.”

“Look—you’ve been compromised.”

“Could just be he’s a bad driver,” McCoy said.

They pulled up to a set of red lights.

“You need to get off the road,” Milton said again.

“Please. Enough. Everything’s fine.”

The lights went to green and McCoy pulled away.