Don Pendleton - Killpath

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 and smuggling the rifles in here, on getting past security. All of it for nothing. He was disappointed that he wouldn’t have a chance to shoot down a legend, but considering that even looking the wrong way at a Soldado could inspire a retaliatory massacre, staying wasn’t worth the risk.

As they turned and walked away, Carrillo saw people filing off the plane. He paused, scanning those exiting the aircraft.

He was not going to leave without a glimpse of the person they had come here to kill.

Carrillo had photos of Rojas on his phone, which he’d studied extensively, not in small part because of her lean, leggy figure and sultry expression.

But no woman matching Rojas’s five-foot-eleven-inch description came through the gate, nor did anyone who appeared to be a federal marshal.

Carrillo watched two men step into the airport. The taller of the two had a gut around him that looked as if he’d seen more time at an all-you-can-eat buffet rather than a gym. His companion was scrawny, his jaw dark with shadow from a day without shaving.

The big man looked right at Carrillo, giving him a once-over.

“Que es esto, gordo?” Carrillo challenged.

The fat guy held up both hands. “No speak-o the Span-o, man!”

“You see something you like?” Carrillo asked him.

Fernando glanced at the big man. “Leave him alone, Ramon,” he said tersely.

The fat man winced. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Carrillo curled his lip in response to the guy’s weakness. The younger man gave his hand a tug, pulling him away.

Carrillo snorted at the tourist and continued following Fernando. His bull-like compatriot steered them toward the washroom, and Carrillo paused just outside.

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