“I’m fine. Come in.”

The door opened and the big man Chase had seen at the safe house stepped inside. It looked as if he had been running; there was sweat on his skin and he was breathing quickly.

“Who’s this?” he asked, looking down at Chase.

“He came after me,” she said. “He thinks I killed his father.” She turned away from the big man and focused on Chase again. “The thing is, I don’t even know who he is talking about. Perhaps we did kill him. Perhaps he got in our way, like his son. The result will be the same.”

Chase looked up at her. He was damned if he was going to go out with his eyes closed. He watched as the big man raised his arm and aimed his pistol at La Bruja. She noticed, and the easy confidence on her face changed to bewilderment.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’ve come to the end of the road.”

“What are you talking about? You work for me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then where is Weaver? I want to speak to him.”

He shook his head. “I have a very clear set of orders—if I ever feel that you might become a liability, I have to minimise the damage that you could cause. That’s what I’m doing.”

Her mouth opened and she started to protest, but the words never came. The pistol was loud in the confined space and the distance the bullet had to travel was short. The man aimed at her head, and the bullet crashed into her temple, jerking her body to the left. The strength left her legs in an instant; she collapsed onto the counter and then slid down it, blood streaking against the stainless steel. She came to rest next to Chase, her body warm against his.

“That wasn’t yours to do,” Chase said. “That was my responsibility.”

“She’s dead either way,” the big man said. He turned the pistol onto Chase. “I’m sorry about this. I can’t let you live.”

Chase bit his lip. He knew there was no point in protesting. The man had the look of a stone-cold killer, and nothing he said would make any difference to the decision that he had made. And he was weak. He was sitting in a pool of his own blood. He was finished whatever happened.

The man aimed the pistol.

“Hands!”

Chase raised his head.

The big man glanced to the side.

“Get your hands up now.”

It was a woman’s voice. American accent. Chase recognised it.

The big man did as he was told, slowly bringing his hands up until they were level with the side of his head. He saw the woman in the doorway, a weapon in her hand. It was the woman from the car, the FBI agent. He couldn’t remember her name.

“Chase.”