Milton said good night and left the room. What he had said was true, at least for the most part. He had done this kind of thing before, although then—when he had been on operations with the Group—he had had the benefit of the best logistical and intelligence backup that the state could provide. Now, though? He was on his own. And, although he was experienced, he was still anxious.

Tomorrow had the makings of a very difficult day indeed.

42

The safe house was an old DEA property that they had been running for years. It was a working business—a garage with a car wash alongside it—and Fuentes was confident that it had never been compromised, and that the cartel did not know that it was there. They needed a large space for the number of men who were engaged on the operation, and the garage offered that. It was wide enough for three cars to fit side by side, with two pits dug into the floor so that the mechanics could work on the undersides of the vehicles that they were servicing. There was a separate booth with a smeared glass window from where the business was run, and equipment stacked around the walls. The floor was damp with puddles from where the rain had fallen in through the holes in the roof, and light from the caged bulbs that dangled from long wires overhead glistened colourfully against spilt fuel and oil.

Long wooden trestle tables had been erected along the walls, and a wide array of weapons, ammunition and other equipment had been arranged neatly across them. Ellie went over to the nearest table and walked alongside it, looking down at the variety of automatic rifles, submachine guns and sidearms.

DEVGRU was split into colour-coded squadrons. The SEALs who were taking part in the assault were from Blue Squadron. The men in the squadron—nicknamed the Pirates—were divided into three troops, and eighteen men from B Troop had been deployed to the safe house. There was a second floor above the garage that had been turned into a temporary dormitory. The SEALs had set up bivouacs there, with bedrolls and sleeping bags arranged in two neat lines. They were staying inside to avoid any possibility that they might be observed out and about. A troop from Black Squadron—specialising in intelligence, reconnaissance and surveillance—was already in the jungle.

Three senior commissioned officers were gathered around a table across which a map had been spread. They were discussing something while looking down at the map, occasionally reaching down to make points with their fingers. The men concluded their discussion and broke up. One of them—the grizzled Lieutenant Commander Scoot McCoy—saw Ellie and came over to her.

“Special Agent Flowers,” he said.