He kept on in the direction the sniper had indicated, moving swiftly. Once he’d crossed a ripple in the mountainside, he knew he’d moved out of range of the scope. Rather than continuing down, he carved along the hillside, keeping to the dense trees. The pine air tingled in his mouth, his throat. At last he circled to the rear of the barn.

Bellying down behind the tree line, he peered through the trunks at the back door about fifty yards away. Two of the narcos patrolled the barn at intervals, the Dobermans trotting alongside. Evan watched and timed them.

In the tower beyond, the guard scanned the woods with his scope, holding his radio to his face with increasing frequency and agitation. A few minutes later, a contingent of three guards exited the barn and jogged into the forest to the north. Though it wasn’t yet dusk, they wore night-vision goggles pushed up high on their foreheads in case the hunt went long.

Evan watched them go, then waited for the patrol to rotate one more time. When they passed, he broke cover and darted for the barn.

The first ten paces left him in full view of the tower, but the guard there stayed focused on the northern slope, rifle scope pressed to his face. Evan sprinted for the cover of the barn, at last falling under its shadow.

The rear door was unlocked. He cracked it, peering inside, wind whistling across the back of his neck. The G-Wagons and the Rolls were parked among a scattering of mechanic’s tools. The gear lockers rimming the interior sported hefty padlocks. Though he could see no one, he heard the echo of voices somewhere inside.

Footsteps crunched the fresh snow along the adjacent side of the barn—the patrol returning. The breeze carried the sound of the dogs’ panting, and then plumes of breath wisped around the corner a few feet off the ground.

Evan slid into the barn, eased the door closed.

The open space was broken only by a small box of an office that was little more than two thin walls and a flimsy door in the corner. Through the interior window, he spotted movement, so he hit the floor and lay still, breathing grease fumes.

Cold air drafted beneath the rear door, blowing against his face. He heard the patrol approaching and tensed in case the guards detoured inside. The sounds grew near, and then shadows dotted the gap beneath the door—broad blocks for the men’s boots, flickering spots for the Dobermans’ paws.

They passed.

Evan rolled behind the nearest G-Wagon, then rose to a crouch and peered through the vehicle’s windows into the office. All he could make out now was a sturdy arm leaning against a cabinet, the back of the hand tattooed with a too-wide grin.

A voice carried over. “What is he planning?”

It sounded like Nando.