Milton reached the back of the Bentley. He opened the rear door, took out the brick of cocaine and tossed it onto the back seat. He had used a knife to slice open one end of the plastic that sheathed the brick. The cocaine inside spilled out, a splash of white against the dark leather upholstery.

Without breaking stride, he continued on his way.

* * *

Chase got up. He saw the flashing blue light of a police patrol car as it raced in from the east, cutting across the junction and coming to a stop next to the two crashed cars. Two officers got out and hurried over to where Anthony Jackson was arguing with the old woman.

“He stole my phone,” she said. “He ran a red light and hit that man; then he punched him in the face. It’s road rage, that’s what it is. Assault. You need to arrest him.”

One of the officers came over to where Chase was standing. He made a show of being unsteady on his feet.

“You okay, sir?”

“He hit me,” he mumbled.

“Do you want to sit down?”

The other officer made her way over to the Bentley and looked in through the rear window. Chase watched, saw her eyes widen and then her jaw drop. She put her hand to her radio and spoke into the microphone. Chase guessed that she was calling for backup.

Jackson noticed her, too. “What are you doing?”

“Stay where you are, please, sir,” the male officer said to him.

“What is she looking at?”

Jackson turned his back to the male officer as he swivelled to face the car. Hicks saw the weapon in his waistband at the same time as the policeman did.

“Gun!” the officer yelled. “He’s got a gun!”

The policeman reached for his belt and took out the yellow Taser that he wore in a holster. He aimed and fired; the two electrodes snaked out and hit Jackson in the shoulder and arm. The Taser clicked and chuckled as it sent fifty thousand volts along the wires that tethered the prongs to the unit; Jackson went stiff and then collapsed, his muscles contracting all at once.

“Taser, Taser, Taser,” the officer called out. “Stay calm, sir. You’ve been Tasered.”

29

Ellie sat in the back of the car as they drove north. There were three hundred and fifty miles between Bogotá and Medellín. The Autopista was in excellent condition and not particularly busy. The satnav had predicted a journey time of eight and a half hours, and it looked as if the prediction would be accurate. They had left Bogotá at six that morning, and the satnav suggested that they would reach their destination around half-two, in ninety minutes.

She was with Luis Miguel and David Fuentes, the two DEA agents who had been on La Bruja’s tail for the last six months. Miguel was driving and Fuentes was in the passenger seat.