Cochrane looked back to the report. Influential journalists had raged at the epidemic of drug use flourishing across the country. New York, Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami. Huge shipments, larger than anything seen since the eighties, were intercepted, but everyone knew that the DEA and Customs only ever stopped a small fraction of the goods that were moved. For every ton that was detected at a border, they all knew that ten times more was getting through. Something had to be done.

Jones looked up. “They will definitely go for this?”

“They’d better,” Cochrane said.

“I still can’t believe they’ll willingly have the US military down here.”

“As advisors,” Cochrane said, smiling at the euphemism.

The plan was simple and, he was confident, would be effective. The Mexicans would deploy their maritime Fuerzas Especiales to attack La Frontera’s naval supply lines, and the Fuerza Especial de Reacción, a quick-strike unit, would hit the traficantes at their distribution points on the border with the US. The Colombians were readying the Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas—their elite counterterrorism group—to take out El Centro’s kitchens deep in the jungle. The Americans would provide training, intel and logistical support, but try telling that to the DELTA soldiers at Fort Bragg, who were itching to get the green light to deploy. Those boys would raise holy hell once they were in theatre. Signing the accord would be the start. Teams from each country were already on standby. A list of targets had been drawn up: lieutenants who would be scooped up off the street, warehouses that would be hit. The police and intelligence outfits would flip the junior players, get them to squeal on the bosses, round them up, rinse and repeat until the whole sordid business had been wiped off the map. It would be the biggest escalation against the cartels since the start of the War on Drugs, and this time, the good guys would win.

The SUV eased to a stop, and Cochrane leaned forward to get a look out the windshield. They were at an intersection. A red light was suspended from a wire that reached across the street. He leaned back in the seat. The light above the car turned green. Cochrane watched the lead car move into the intersection. He turned around and checked that the trail car was still behind them.

Harrison must have noticed his wariness. “We’re all good.”

“This fucking place,” Cochrane muttered.

“Ten minutes to Bolivar Square.”

Cochrane nodded. They were fine.

“Hold up,” Martinez said, and sighed.

The SUV carried them through the intersection, then slowed again.

Cochrane leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Traffic,” Martinez said.

Cochrane looked through the windshield to see a line of cars stacked up in front of them.