Firestorm. Don Pendleton

talking about it?” Serrano said.

      “Just making conversation,” he replied.

      “Then talk about the weather. Besides, why do you know anything about my orders?”

      He grinned. “Because they told me you’d disobey them. The gun part, anyway. Listen, I’m cleared to know the conditions of this transfer, okay? I don’t know why you’re leaving, why you were here or where you’re going. But I do know that you were supposed to ditch the gun.”

      “You didn’t say anything back there about it.”

      “You almost blew my damn head off!”

      “Occupational hazard,” she replied.

      A stream of cigarette smoke wafted into her eyes, stung them. She waved a hand in front of her face to clear some of the smoke. When that didn’t work, she cracked a window to let in some fresh air.

      “Damn it!” he yelled. With his left index finger, he jabbed a button to raise the window. “They stay closed. That was an order.”

      Serrano started to say something but held her tongue. She could tell he was anxious, and agitating him would probably just make him worse.

      Serrano stared through the windshield at the sunbaked stretch of road. Within an hour, they left behind the city limits and continued to follow the road to a small military airport that lay several miles outside Bogotá. Heat rose from the road, shimmering like water as it wafted up and eventually disappeared. On either side, they passed a few shacks, but eventually those structures became fewer until they disappeared altogether.

      The road sloped downward. Serrano saw a trough at the end of the decline was blotted out by an impenetrable shadow that looked like a puddle of oil, but actually was a trick of the light.

      Something on the road glinted, catching Serrano’s attention.

      She opened her mouth to say something, but Miller stomped the brakes before she uttered a word. Hot rubber squealed beneath the car, but the tires grabbed hold of the road. The car slowed.

      Serrano felt herself forced back in her seat by the sudden braking.

      They hurtled several more yards and the objects in the road became visible. The SUV rolled over the road spikes and the tires were shredded. Farther up the road, a line of vans rolled across their path and blocked them.

      “What the hell?” Serrano yelled.

      Why weren’t the helicopters doing anything? The question raced through her mind. The answer came almost the same instant, and it made her stomach clench.

      She looked at Miller, whose eyes were riveted on the road. He stomped the brakes again and the SUV launched into a sidelong slide at the vans. A panel van mushroomed up against the passenger side of the Jeep and the vehicles collided. The force of the crash tossed Serrano side to side. Her teeth clamped down. A side-impact air bag burst from the door panel and kept her head from slamming against the window. In the same instant, the front air bag exploded from the dashboard.

      Her ears rang, and powder from the air bag deployment burned her eyes.

      Your gun, Maria! her mind screamed. Grab it! Now!

      Working her way around the air bag, she slipped her hand inside her jacket. Her fingers scrambled for the SIG-Sauer’s butt, found it and jerked the weapon free.

      With her thumb, she turned off the safety.

      A sidelong glance at Miller showed his limp body hanging forward against the seat belt harness. Blood streamed from his nose, over the curve of his upper lip, down his chin before it dripped onto his white dress shirt. She saw that his chest continued to rise and fall. Thank God, she thought.

      She released her seat belt and leaned across the console. Her arms strained to reach the door handle. The whipping of the helicopter’s propeller blades grew louder. She opened the door and shoved it hard enough to keep it from swinging closed again. A glance over the seat showed her that the helicopter was landing on the road behind her, its blades kicking up boiling clouds of dust.

      She released Miller’s seat belt. To get free of the vehicle, she figured she’d have to climb over him, then drag him free of the vehicle. Without knowing what kinds of injuries he’d suffered she couldn’t risk pushing him from the car first and making them worse.

      Figures decked out in black SWAT-style uniforms ran up on either side of the Jeep, guns held high. They formed a ring around the vehicle. One of them, his submachine gun poised at shoulder level closed in on the wrecked vehicle.

      “Hands up,” he shouted. Fear swelled inside Serrano, caused her throat to tighten until she swore she’d suffocate. She weighed the situation and realized she was boxed in. Setting the handgun on the dashboard, she raised her hands. The man who’d yelled at her stepped aside and allowed a second man to approach the vehicle. He reached inside, grabbed Miller by the arm and dragged him from the SUV.

      “Let’s go! Let’s go!” the lead gunner shouted. Serrano climbed over the console. Another thug stepped forward, grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her from the vehicle. He ordered her to lay facedown on the ground. She complied and almost immediately regretted it when the heat from the asphalt burned her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sunlight.

      Someone from the swarm of black-suited men searched her, but found no weapons.

      A shadow fell over her. She opened her eyes, looked up and saw a thick-bodied man stalking toward her.

      “Sit up,” he said.

      She did. She looked him over and saw he had a ruddy complexion and dull green eyes that emitted a thousand-yard stare, as though he was human in form only. A portion of a tattoo—a scorpion’s tail—peeked out from beneath his shirt collar. He nodded at one of the men beside her. The man knelt.

      A small sting in her left arm caught her attention. She jerked her arm away, but it was too late. The man next to her was back on his feet, a syringe in his grip. Within seconds, she began to feel light-headed. Black spots swirled in her vision and noises began to sound far away. Darkness fell over her.

       S EVERAL MILES AWAY , Albert Bly stood at the edge of the clearing and stared at the smoking remains of a body. A satisfied smirk played over his lips. The smell of burned flesh filled his nostrils. He welcomed it, inhaling deeply.

      The camouflage fatigues Bly wore hung loosely from his thin body. His black hair was combed straight back from his forehead, exposing a sharp widow’s peak. His skin was red, as though blood might burst from his pores at any moment.

      From the corner of his eye, he saw the man next to him shake his head vigorously, heard him make a disgusted noise. “My God,” Milt Krotnic said, “that smells terrible, like cooked garbage or something.”

      Bly turned his head and looked at the other man. His lips peeled back into a smile. “It’s the smell of money, Krotnic,” he said, scolding the other man. “You remember that.”

      The other man shrugged. “Sure.”

      Two men brushed past Bly. Surgical masks covered the lower halves of their faces. Their hands were sheathed in rubber gloves that stretched well up their forearms, but stopped short of their elbows. They angled toward the corpse, knelt beside it and stretched it out on a black plastic body bag on the ground. One of the men reached gingerly for one of the dead man’s ankles. With a pair of scissors, he began cutting at the fabric of the man’s trouser leg and peeled back the fabric. Bly caught a flash of the charred flesh and felt a surge of excitement.

      “Hold it,” Bly shouted.

      As he advanced on the two men, he withdrew a digital camera from his pants pocket. When he reached the body, they rose and moved away to give him ample room to perform his grisly ritual. He aimed the camera at the remains and snapped several pictures, making sure to zoom in on the puckered black flesh that still clung to the bones. When he finished, he lowered the camera a foot or so from his face and, using his thumbnail, manipulated