A circular cobblestone driveway received a gravel road that pointed east, the only clear route in or out. The hard earth crunched beneath Evan’s hiking boots as he stepped off the edge of the cobblestones, putting the chalet behind him. Pine air whistled in his windpipe, clean as mouthwash. Turning back, he admired the grand exterior. Four stories of stone and wood plunked down on an apron of landscaping carved out of the hard terrain. Boxy shrubs artfully concealed a few sunken basement windows. A tower stretched up from the east wing, manned by a rail-thin guard whose silhouette Evan didn’t recognize. He included the man in his mental count.

Evan rotated in a full circle, taking in the sweep of the surrounding range. The valley position was ideal for René. A single lookout could monitor incoming traffic from all directions, the amphitheater effect of the mountains ensuring that a car or a plane would be heard from miles away.

It made even more sense why René had hired narcos for his detail. Aside from ISIS bodyguards who were unwooable by money, narcos had the most experience conducting illicit and elaborate operations while staying off the radar. Evan had no doubt that these men had cut their teeth hiding powerful drug lords from the federales, rival cartel assassins, and DEA drones while doing the legwork to keep the empire running. Procuring these men was ingenious and bold—René’s trademarks.

The air was crisp, the view at postcard resolution. Above the ridge a hawk caught a wind current, frozen in place like a fleck of paint on a camera lens. The slope to the north looked to be the most gradual, which suited Evan fine. The border to Liechtenstein lay that way.

The red barn sat a few hundred yards to the east. Two narcos perched on wooden crates by the door, smoking and sipping coffee, their AKs dangling from straps. They wore long dark coats, heavy enough to add bulk. One poked a fork into a plate of food. A fire languished between the crates, down to ash and embers, a pot hanging over it like something from a cowboy movie. Evan recognized them as two of the men he’d seen jogging into the barn earlier. The Dobermans lounged at their boots, resting.

Evan started toward the men, and they both rose quickly. The dogs lunged to their paws and issued a rumbling growl in stereo. But still they kept slack in the leash. They were well trained, not junkyard menaces.

The wet air conveyed the scent of cigarettes, onions, and garlic. As Evan drew near, he saw that the plate held a half-eaten tamale smothered in green salsa. His stomach leapt at the sight.

Giving the men a wide berth, Evan passed by. “Buenas tardes,” he said.

“Buenas tardes.”