Killing Kings. Don Pendleton

the taller man moved along the line of dripping pallets, striking matches, dropping one on each of them in turn and then stepping back as pale flames shimmered skyward, the late-morning heat immediately amplified.

      So, not a hijacking—at least not as Azuela understood the term. Hijackers stole drugs, or whatever else a target shipment might consist of, and then sold it off themselves, or offered it for ransom to the owners they had robbed. Depending on the ever-fluctuating street price of cocaine in the United States, Azuela knew he must be watching $10 million to $12 million going up in smoke.

      If the wind shifted, how high could he become, just breathing in those fumes? Would they kill him? And if so, would he even care?

      “There goes your jefe’s product and his profit,” said the man who’d set it all ablaze. “Now, do you want to help us, or be added to the pyre?”

      * * *

      “Just ask me what you want to know,” their prisoner replied. He didn’t hang his head or snivel, didn’t try avoiding Bolan’s gaze, but seemed prepared to stand his ground and do what must be done to stay alive.

      Assuming anything could save him at this point.

      “First let me tell you what we know,” Bolan said. “You work for The Office, based in Envigado, but we may as well just call it Medellín. The founder, Don Berna, is rotting in a solitary cell at ADX Florence, where furnishings include a bed, a desk and a chair, all made from poured concrete. The sink has no tap, and the water in his toilet cuts off if he tries to jam it. There’s a timer on his shower to prevent flooding, and he has one light bulb the guards control remotely. If he’s lucky and he’s caused no trouble, he can leave his cage for one hour per day, five times a week, with three guards watching him. That’s where he’ll stay until he dies, unless he lives past eighty-one without losing his mind.”

      “I never worked for Don Berna,” their captive said. He didn’t sound defiant; he was simply doling out a fact of life.

      “Which brings me to my first question,” Bolan replied. “Who runs The Office now that he’s away forever?”

      “You must understand—”

      “He’s stalling,” Grimaldi said, playing bad cop for the moment. “Hell, I’d say he’s useless. Can I pop him now?”

      “No, wait! I’ve never met him, you must understand. Some people talk. Of course, they claim to know things, but is any of it true? I don’t know.”

      “All right. Let’s start with something that you do know,” Bolan answered. “What’s your name?”

      “Ignacio Azuela,” the reply came back without a trace of hesitation.

      “You’re Colombian?”

       “Sí.”

      “And the others here?” Bolan gestured across the body-littered field with his left hand.

      “The men who came with me,” Azuela said. “And also the gunmen who traveled through the tunnel, I suppose. The workers who came with them would be mexicanos.”

      “Working for The Office?”

      “For anyone who pays them, I imagine, doing anything.”

      “It looks like none of them are going home,” Grimaldi said, faking a hungry smile.

      “But you still might,” Bolan chimed in. “Although I’d recommend a change of scene from the Antioquia Department, if you make it.”

      “How can I go back now?” Azuela asked. “I’ve said too much already to survive inside Colombia.”

      “That leaves a big world to get lost in,” Bolan said. “But first we need a name.”

      “I’ve told you, I don’t know the boss of La Oficina.”

      “But I’ll bet your life,” Bolan replied, “you know where this shipment was meant to go upon arrival, and the man who’d be receiving it.”

      “Sí. This I know. But in return...”

      “You take one of the SUVs, whatever cash your friends have in their pockets and get lost. Try double-crossing us, or if we ever see your face again—even by accident, across a busy street—and you’ll be history.”

      “I understand,” their prisoner said. “Now, do you wish to write this down?”