dirt drive. A solitary light burned in the kitchen. He locked the steering on the scooter, lifted his gear and trudged across the mixture of saw-grass and rock chips, his running shoes making a strange crunching noise.
âHello,â he called, entering the bungalow and dumping his gear on the floor next to the front door. âIâm home. Sorry Iâm late.â He kicked off his shoes and rounded the corner into the kitchen. âWe had six divers who wanted to try a nightââ
He stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth open. Julie and Shiara were nowhere to be seen. Three men were in his kitchen, one of them at the table and two leaning against the counter. All three were Latinos, with dark hair and brown skin, but it was the figure sitting at his table that immediately caught his attention. The man was in his mid-thirties with longer hair swept back behind his ears, and deep brown eyes like ice. His manicured hands rested on the table.
âWho the hell are you, and where is my wife?â Eugene asked.
âRelax, Eugenio,â the seated man said in a soft voice. âYour wife and daughter are fine. For now.â
Eugene started to move forward, but two guns appeared, Glock A-17s, one in the right hand of each man leaning against his counter. Eugene stopped. âWhere is my wife?â His words were like acid.
âSit down, Eugenio. Threatening me isnât going to help your situation.â
Eugene glanced at the guns, and sat at the table opposite the man. âWho are you?â he asked.
The man smiled. âNow thatâs a question I can answer. My name is Javier Rastano. Iâm from MedellÃn. Itâs a city in southern Colombia, in case youâre not familiar with it.â
âI know where MedellÃn is,â Eugene said. âBut I donât understand why youâre here.â
âYou are related to the Escobar clan, who at one time lived in MedellÃn. One of your cousins was Pablo Escobar.â
âPablo is dead. He died violently years ago.â
âDid he?â Javier asked, amused. âWhat makes you so sure?â
Eugene looked puzzled. âThe entire planet knows that Pablo Escobar died during a shootout in MedellÃn sometime in December of 1993. You should read the newspapers.â
Javierâs smile disappeared. He leaned forward. âDonât get sarcastic with me, Eugenio. Remember, we have two people very dear to you.â He held up his hand as Eugene began to ask again where his wife and daughter were. âDonât keep asking about them or Iâll make a phone call and they wonât be okay.â
Eugene settled back into his chair. âOkay. Okay. Everythingâs cool here.â He swallowed, his throat dry. âWhat do you want from me?â
Javier also reclined back into his chair. âWe have reason to believe that your cousin isnât as dead as he would like the world to believe. In fact, weâre sure heâs alive.â
âThatâs impossible. The Colombian government ran all kinds of tests on his body. They proved beyond any doubt that it was Pablo. They verified his fingerprints and ran DNA samples of his blood and skin.â
Javier laughed. âThe Colombian government. The same men who were terrified of Pablo Escobar. The politicians and police either accepted Pabloâs bribes or he killed them. Plata o plomo, silver or lead. And these are the people who authenticated his death. Fingerprints can be changed with lasers and DNA samples can be switched. Especially in a country like Colombia.â
âThe American DEA and CIA were involved.â
âAt a distance. They werenât allowed to be in direct contact with the body or any aspect of the verification. The Colombians saw the American influence as meddling in their affairs, and since Escobar was dead, they didnât have to worry about reprisals. So the DEA and CIA had to stand back and let the
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley