31

Weaver got out of the car and made his way across the rough stretch of land that led to the shack. The banana plants had been cleared away here, and the building was used as a store by the farmer who worked the fields. There was a wide overhang that offered a respite from the sun, and Weaver waited there for La Bruja to join him. Eight and Six came, too, taking up position a little way off so as not to crowd the meeting.

La Bruja stepped out of the vehicle. Weaver didn’t know very much about her other than her nom de guerre and a little of her history, although how much of that had been polluted by the legend that had attached to her was difficult to make out. The Antioquians had always invested their criminals with outlaw status; it had been that way with Escobar, and it was the same with her. Her nickname was a reference to her ability to do things that could only seemingly be explained by recourse to the supernatural. No photographs of her had ever been published. She had the ability to disappear into the jungle. And her reach extended across all of Central and South America and even into the United States itself. Songs had been written about her and the things that she had done. Weaver had listened to a norteño track on YouTube—‘El Más Bravo de los Bravos’—that eulogised La Bruja’s role in the death of the United States ambassador.

El Más Bravo de los Bravos.

The toughest of the tough.

A big man got out of the vehicle and led the way across the road and up to the shack. Björn Thorsson—Number One—was broad shouldered and had the blond hair that marked him out as a Scandinavian. He was six foot four and built like a truck. He had been recruited to the Group by Michael Pope and had been the only agent to survive the cull that had been instigated following Pope’s disappearance. Thorsson was an Icelander, although he had lived in the United Kingdom for years. He had served in the SAS with distinction, and he had carried that excellent track record into the more clandestine world of the Group. He had risen to the pinnacle of the Group on merit as much as by the fact of his survival, and had been an obvious choice for this particular operation.

La Bruja and Thorsson reached the shack.

“Good afternoon,” Weaver said to La Bruja.

“Señor. It is good to see you. I hope the journey was not too difficult?”

“A little hot.”

“Summer in Colombia,” she said with a shrug. “It is what it is.”

Weaver turned to Thorsson and nodded in acknowledgement. “Number One.”

“Sir.”