Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Guarapo drove the pick-up like he owned the roads, honking the horn and demanding right of way whenever he came across another vehicle. There was an excessive amount of braking and swerving and driving with two wheels along verges. Rickard had a feeling that some of the driver's aggressive actions were to unsettle him in the back. Rickard didn't let his discomfort show; he simply sat with his ankles crossed and his hands folded in his lap, smiling wistfully. His armed guards didn't fare so well. They rocked and bounced with each lurch of the vehicle.

The journey took them north through land that alternated between arable pastures and untamed forest. On one occasion Guarapo slowed down as a convoy of vehicles sped by in the other direction. The convoy was made up of buses full of workers destined for coca plantations. They were travelling under guard of Jungla troopers to rip the plants out of the ground. Rickard heard Guarapo swearing savagely from the front. In situations like this, he guessed, Guarapo and his men would follow the workers and try to pick them off from sniper positions on the hillsides. Stuck with transporting him, they had no option but to trust the landmines they'd sown among the coca leaves to derail the effort.

An hour later the truck plodded its way up a winding track overlooking a river valley. Everything here was green and dripping wet. Rickard still kept his cool even when his guards began to sweat and squirm uncomfortably. Both men had stopped watching him some time back and had started a low conversation, muttering and cursing in their native tongue. A few of their comments were aimed surreptitiously his way. But now he noticed that both men had fallen silent. They were approaching their destination and the men were once again preparing themselves to take him under their weapons to their vaunted leader.

Guarapo halted the truck at a checkpoint. He exchanged pleasantries with the two men armed with assault rifles who pulled the temporary sawhorse blockade aside and waved them through. As the truck again picked up speed, Rickard watched the guardsmen muscle the barricade back in place. He couldn't help but think that – for the hidden base of a feared death squad – security was woefully inadequate. If he chose to invade this place he could slip inside, kill Silva and be gone again without anyone noticing.

Guarapo drove the truck over a hill and down into a valley. Trees clung to the slopes, their canopies almost, but not quite, concealing the camp below from aerial observation. Buildings had been erected under the trees, all except for a large white hacienda-type structure standing in its own field. As they drove past, Rickard studied the number of men and vehicles mingling among the trees. Maybe getting in undetected wouldn't be as easy as he'd first assumed.

With a crunch of gravel under the tyres, Guarapo brought the truck to a halt. He banged his hand on the cab wall, shouting in his native language. His voice was garbled but emphatic: out now.

Rickard climbed down, hitching his bag on his shoulder, then walked towards the large ranch house. His guards rushed to surround him.

'Easy, gang,' Rickard said. 'We're all friends here.'

It seemed that Guarapo was the only one of the four who could speak English. Rickard could have conversed with them all in Spanish, but he didn't care to.

'You must give up your weapons before you meet with Senor Silva.'

Rickard shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, Sugar.'

Guarapo was the name of a local drink laced with sugar, a delicacy that was sickly sweet to some palates. It didn't much fit the man's demeanour.

He squinted at Rickard from below his lumpy eyebrows. Not so much at his refusal to hand over his weapons but at the use of the nickname that Rickard chose. 'You know of me?'

'I've heard your name mentioned, yes.' Rickard didn't expound. He simply continued to walk.

'Then you will know I am not a man to be ignored, marricon.'

Rickard grunted at the man's choice of words. He was anything but a faggot. He chose instead to respond to the man's insult by ignoring him.

Guarapo grasped hold of Rickard's elbow, tugging him to a stop. 'No me jodas! You are making a mistake if you think I'm someone to be disregarded like this.'

Rickard unhooked his elbow from the man's grasp. He turned to stare into Guarapo's blunt features. 'I want to meet with your boss, Sugar. When I've done that if you want to renew this conversation then let's do it. However, for now vete al infierno! I've more important matters than to butt heads with someone who smells like a donkey's ass.'

Guarapo blinked slowly. Then a smile grew, showing discoloured teeth. Guarapo lifted his assault rifle so that it was braced across his chest: a reminder of his power. 'You are either insane or you are a very brave man.'

'Maybe I'm both.' Rickard gave a subtle dip of his head, inviting Guarapo to follow his gaze. The tip of Rickard's ceramic knife was a mere hair's breadth from the self-styled soldier's groin. 'Do you still want to contest which of us has the biggest cojones, Sugar?'

'Cono!' Guarapo swore. Then his self-satisfied grin wavered and he edged slowly away.

'I didn't think so.' Rickard turned away from him and continued walking. Behind him he could hear the muttered curses of all four men. Then Guarapo swore savagely – something about shitting in Rickard's milk – and all four of them hurried to surround him again. This time they all moved off, and Guarapo attempted to regain some of his composure in front of his men by edging ahead so it looked like he was leading. Rickard allowed him the illusion.

There had been no real threat of violence during their exchange; Rickard knew that he had been undergoing a test. One that he'd passed. If he had backed down it was probable that Alvaro Silva had ordered Guarapo and his men to gun him down where he stood. Test number two would come soon.

On the approach to the ranch house, some care had been taken to mow the lawn and a path of white gravel had been laid all the way to the front door. It was an attempt at giving the place an illusion of respectability, but it was purely masculine; no hint of a woman's touch could be discerned in the sterile flower beds or the hangings in the windows. It did not look like Alvaro Silva had lived here very long and Rickard guessed that the warlord had taken ownership following a bribe from an official or having extorted it from its previous owner. Maybe said owner was in one of those flower beds he'd passed.

The door opened and they were met by a tall, muscular man wearing khaki fatigues. His blond hair had been recently cut into a flat-top, as angular as his Teutonic features. Rickard took the man to be of northern European stock even before he invited them inside in a gruff German accent. A mercenary – not unlike Rickard – he'd been drafted as extra muscle for Silva's campaign to capitalise on the collapse of the AUC. One of many, Rickard assumed, judging by the other pale faces he'd noted out in the woods.

The German led Rickard inside. Of the original group only Guarapo followed. The others went off, pulling out packs of cigarettes and searching for matches.

As he walked, Rickard judged the man walking ahead of him. The German had that straight-backed stance of someone indoctrinated by military training, but he also walked with the free and easy grace of the most dangerous of killers. A man cut from the same ream as Rickard and Joe Hunter. Special Forces undoubtedly; maybe even from GSG 9 – Grenzschutzgruppe 9 – the famed counter-terrorism unit of the German Federal Police or from KSK – Kommando Spezialkrafte – the army equivalent. With men of the German's ilk already on Silva's books, he wondered if the warlord was as eager to engage Rickard's services as he'd made out when they talked on the phone. Maybe he should kill the German now and ensure there was a vacancy open for him.