He heard the sound of raised voices from back up the street. The soldiers in the Duster had realised what was happening, and two people who had been in the Dodge minivan—both wearing balaclavas—were holding them in place with submachine guns. Milton knew that their ambushers didn’t have long before the police arrived; he guessed, from the professionalism that they had displayed, that they would be aware of that, too. The horn was still blaring out of the Duster, and the authorities wouldn’t be far away. Milton doubted that it would have made much practical difference if the police had intervened. El Centro owned the cops, but Milton guessed that these mercenaries would have had no interest in negotiating custody of an unconscious La Bruja when they would have wanted the credit for her rescue themselves. It would go some way to make up for the fact that she had been taken on their watch in the first place.

Rhames, having weighed up his options, apparently agreed with Milton’s assessment. He pushed up the seat in front of him and manoeuvred his unconscious prisoner outside. He draped her arm over his shoulder, grabbed her wrist with his hand and locked it in place, and followed the woman’s direction that he should bring her to the back of the van. The woman followed him, covering him with the rifle, and waited as he raised the door and lifted her into the back.

“You’ve got her,” Milton said. “All right?”

“Who’s your friend over there?” Eidur asked him, gesturing to Ellie. “DEA? FBI?”

“I’ve no idea,” Milton replied.

“I don’t believe you. You’re both coming with us.”

He reached forward, grabbed Milton’s bound wrists and, aiming the pistol back at the two cars with one hand, he hauled Milton backwards to the waiting van.

89

Chase was on Avenida 33, four blocks to the north of Hicks’s location. The roads in this part of the city were arranged so that some were eastbound and others were westbound, often on an alternating basis. Hicks had suggested that they needed at least one car in a floating role, able to respond quickly to changes of direction or the need to replace one trail car with another in the event that the first was made. That was Chase’s responsibility.

“Head south,” Ziggy directed over the phone. “Two blocks.”

He hit the gas, pulling ahead and then swinging the wheel hard to the right. There was a bus ahead of him, blocking the road as it dropped off passengers. Chase swerved around it into the opposite lane, then turned hard right to miss the taxi that rushed by him with its horn blaring.