Milton took the stairs. The large room above was full of smoke, an acrid miasma that quickly had his eyes watering. They must have dropped tear gas, he thought, as he quickly retreated back down the stairs to where the smoke was thinner. He took off his shirt, tore it down the middle and bound one half of it around his nose and mouth. The gas was still going to cause his eyes to water, but he would have to manage that as best he could.

He climbed the stairs again, his naked feet cold against the bare concrete floor. He stayed low, crouching down, and assessed the room. The assaulters looked to have breached through a door to his right; there was a breeze blowing from that direction, the shifting smoke suggesting that a door was open. Milton looked up and saw moonlight from several skylights, with muzzle flash starbursting as soldiers stationed up there fired down into the room below. The cartel soldiers were caught in a vicious crossfire; they fired back, but the flashes were intermittent and less and less frequent.

He took a step and winced at a sudden surge of pain. He looked down and saw the sparkling debris of glass that had fallen down from above. He had put a foot down right in the middle of it. He stepped back, gritting his teeth against the pain. That sealed it. He wanted to pursue Thorsson and La Bruja, but he didn’t know where they had gone and he doubted he would last very long if he tried to make his way across the room with an injured foot. A noble death would be pointless unless there was a chance that he might also be able to bring La Bruja with him, and, right now, he knew that was unrealistic. Better to try to stay alive so that he could live to fight another day.

He limped back down the stairs, but only just reached the bottom when he heard the sound of footsteps following him. A soldier, dressed all in black and wearing night-vision goggles and a respirator, came into the cellar. He raised a submachine gun.

Milton raised his hands. “No Spanish.”

“Abajo!” the man yelled.

“Okay,” Milton said. “I’m not with them. No cartel.”

“Down. On the floor.”

Milton lowered himself to his knees, his hands still raised above his head. He didn’t know whether or not the soldier would understand him, and prepared himself for the worst as the man edged forward, aiming the muzzle of the weapon at his head. The soldier came around behind him and booted Milton in the back. He fell face first onto the floor, looking up just as a second person descended the stairs.

It was Ellie Flowers, a Glock clasped in a two-handed grip.

“It’s okay,” she said to the soldier. “He’s with me.”

107