Killpath. Don Pendleton

If he intended to take her life, he would not be such a completist when it came to going into action.

      He had made no bones about their plan.

      Hilde Rojas was to be the bait. Once she appeared on the scene in Colombia, the SNC would pick up her scent and come after her.

      Los Soldados were from a different group than her, another faction of the splintered Colombian drug scene. The old Cali and Medellin cartels were not friends, and much blood had been spilled at the height of their rivalry. When their boss died in a hail of gunfire from a military and police strike, Medellin collapsed into its own mayhem. Nobody there would consider Rojas anything more than a relic of the past.

      That she was out of jail after serving only seven of her twenty years would surprise those bosses in Medellin struggling to build a new power base, but she wouldn’t draw their attention.

      Only the SNC would be interested in La Brujah.

      “You also have barely touched your drink,” Rojas commented, too restless now to stay silent. “I’ve got you figured out, you know. You’re a professional, and you believe in being in control.”

      “In control of my thoughts and body,” Cooper replied. “I prefer to be aware and at the top of my game. True control of events around you is an illusion.”

      Rojas thought of her own downfall. For over a decade, she’d smashed all opposition or dissent to her rule with ruthless efficiency. Back then, she’d thought she’d been in total control. The truth was that, eventually, her own people turned against her, flipping on her before she could flip on them. Her wildest caballeros had realized that she’d orchestrated so many deaths for the smallest slights or offenses that they themselves could become her next targets.

      That was how the DEA had caught her. Someone in her ranks had snitched, but not wanting to implicate themselves in any killings, they’d fed the DEA information about her drug stashes.

      Two years of pretrial maneuverings and her conviction meant that she’d missed out on seven of her youngest son’s twelve years. Her last living son, and she hadn’t been present for more than half of his life.

      All because she thought she had more control than she truly did.

      “You all right?” Cooper asked.

      Rojas nodded. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

      “You wandered off for a moment.”

      “Si,” Rojas returned. “I’m fine.”

      Cooper frowned. “Just don’t let your attention wander when we get to Colombia.”

      Rojas narrowed her eyes. “I was holding my own, naked and unarmed, against three bruiser girls just before you met me. I don’t let my mind wander. I won’t let my mind wander.”

      “You’re no good to me dead, so keep on your toes,” Cooper said. He returned to the intel on his smartphone.

      She grimaced. Rojas didn’t like being told what to do. One of the reasons why she’d become so powerful was that she lived by her own rules. Yet she realized that part of her craved this man’s approval.

      Cooper was a powerful presence, able to convey praise or condemnation with a simple glance. No man had ever made her feel even a flicker of this kind of…what?

      Dependence? No. He actually made her want to step up her game, to prove herself.

      Awe? Not quite. Nothing he did seemed magical to her, not when she saw the truth behind his tactics and his training.

      Rojas downed the last of her bourbon, feeling it burn her throat, then closed her eyes, hoping to drift off to less conflicted thoughts.

      When the nightmares of blood and mourning came, however, she wasn’t disappointed.

      * * *

      RAMON CARRILLO STRUCK a match off the back of his friend Fernando’s head. Fernando wasn’t his real name; it had been bestowed upon him for his thick neck and broad, bull-like physique. Carrillo didn’t even know his real name. Still, it was better than calling him “Toro.”

      Fernando didn’t seem to mind that his scalp was being used to light a match. In fact, Carrillo’s gesture made him chuckle.

      “How much longer do we have to wait for ’em?” Fernando asked.

      Carrillo looked at his watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before the passengers disembark from the plane.”

      Thanks to bribes, Carrillo, Fernando and a half dozen of their closest friends had managed to avoid metal detectors and security checkpoints at Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport, where Hilde Rojas was supposed to arrive.

      Both Carrillo and Fernando, dressed in roomy linen suits, were armed with Brazilian-built knockoffs of Micro Tavor bullpup rifles, 23 inches from nose to butt stock. Thanks to a single point sling, the guns were well-concealed under their loose jackets. When it was time to pull them out, the 5.56 mm NATO rounds would pummel their targets at a rate of seven-hundred to nine-hundred shots per minute.

      Hilde Rojas’s presence in Cali was either the stupidest idea the United States government had ever had, or it was an intentional sacrifice of a pain in the ass. Sending her back to Medellin might have given her a better chance at survival, but Rojas’s enemies were numerous in this city.

      The woman had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of Carrillo’s friends.

      The announcement of her return to Colombia had been practically broadcast over a loudspeaker. She was chum in the water, and Carrillo could see dozens of fellow tiburons patrolling the airport, predatory eyes scanning the gates as they waited for their target to show up.

      Carrillo and Fernando walked along, anxious and ready for some action. It looked as if three or four different factions were part of this welcoming committee.

      Across the room, Carrillo could make out the unmistakable figure of Miguel Villanueva. He was tall and slender, a battered brown Stetson on his head. He carried a small gym bag, which didn’t seem out of place.

      So, one of the top cops in Colombia was also waiting for Rojas to show up. Maybe more than one.

      That would make things stickier. Carrillo and his brethren would have been more than sufficient for a rival gang or airport security, and they would have no problem taking down a lone federal marshal accompanying the former prisoner.

      But if Villanueva was here, he might have brought a contingent of Colombian National Police, a platoon or a whole company, even. Sure, Carrillo and his allies were armed as well as any cop would be, but they could easily be outnumbered.

      That was when Carrillo spotted them. Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos.

      Fernando’s grimace informed Carrillo that he’d noticed the group, as well.

      “Everyone’s come out to greet La Brujah,” the big bull of a man grumbled. “Should we stick around?”

      Carrillo got out his phone as casually as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that others were also conferring with their higher-ups.

      The Soldados moved in as a vanguard, unmistakable with their military precision and solid formation. Angry eyes regarded each of the other gangs as they swept into the terminal in a flying V, marching apace, not bothering to hide that they were armed.

      “Boss,” Carrillo said into the phone. “The SNC showed up.”

      “How many?”

      “A dozen,” Carrillo responded. “And no one else seems to know what to do.”

      “Just get out of there,” his boss responded. “We do not need to get into a shooting war with the Soldiers.”

      Carrillo assented, then ended the call. All that money spent on obtaining