Hicks watched it all. The minivan stopped abruptly and the Duster had slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending it. Hicks had been far enough behind to stop with plenty of space to spare, and the distance between him and the Duster ahead meant that he was able to look around it and the Dodge and see the Chevrolet. A white van had raced out of the junction and blocked it, and then the Toyota had accelerated into the back of it. Hicks had no idea what was happening, save that it was a classic ambush, well planned and perfectly executed.

“What’s happening?” Ziggy said over the phone. “You’ve stopped.”

“The convoy’s being hit,” Hicks reported.

“Hang on,” Chase replied. “On my way.”

The doors of the Dodge opened and two people stepped down to the asphalt. They were wearing black, with black balaclavas pulled down over their heads, and they were carrying submachine guns. The figures approached the Duster with their weapons cradled in two hands. They opened the doors on both sides of the SUV and took aim at those inside.

* * *

Milton shuffled across the bench and stepped down onto the road. He recognised the big man’s voice: it was the mercenary La Bruja had referred to as Eidur. The big man had kept the pistol on him, stepping back a couple of paces so that there was no possibility that Milton might think that he could disarm him before he could pull the trigger.

Milton put his hands up.

“Turn around.”

“Take it easy,” Milton said.

“Turn around now. Hands behind you.”

Milton did as he was told. He had noticed that the man was wearing flexicuffs looped into his armour, and he felt the familiar sensation as the loops were secured around his wrists and then yanked tight. How many times had he been restrained since he had arrived in South America?

“Just take her,” Milton said. “There’s no need to hurt anyone. You’ve won.”

“Tell your friend in the back to play ball,” the man said, “or we’ll shoot you all.”

Milton faced into the car. Rhames was still on the back bench, his hand dangerously close to his weapon. Reaching for it would have been suicide; he was badly outgunned. The police would be using tweezers to pick bits of him out of the upholstery for weeks if he did something as foolish as pull it.

“Do what she said,” Milton said. “Bring her out. There’s no play for you here.”