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victims, doused with gasoline, and then lit. It would take several minutes for the tougher of them to die in excruciating pain.
    The technique was infamous in Colombia and was referred to by the cartels as ‘lighting the torch.’ Of all the horrors perpetrated in the constant turf wars and rivalries, it was considered the worst way to go, and for good reason. One of Mosises men would film the spectacle with his phone: the footage would make it onto social media sites that featured such atrocities, where his enemies could see what they had to look forward to if he got his hands on them.
    Mosises was a survivor who had gone through the ups and the downs of the Colombian cocaine business, from the giddy years when the Medellín and Cali cartels ruled the country to the current era, when the Colombians were largely only on the production end, relying on the Mexican cartels to transport the drugs north. He had carved out a niche where he commanded respect, with his own trafficking network that could get the powdered gold into Central America. There he supplied an eager affluent class in Panama and Costa Rica who consumed his product with an appetite he hadn’t seen since the Escobar heyday of the eighties.
    He strode over to the wooden fence and leaned one arm on it, watching his mare run unbridled around the perimeter of the clearing, happy in her youth and momentary freedom. He smiled at her obvious enjoyment and was only pulled out of his reverie by a tortured scream from nearby as the first of the five brothers who had conspired to double-cross him discovered the purifying agony of the fire.
    Mosises took a final look at his pride and joy, and then turned slowly and made his way to where inhuman shrieks rent the air as flesh sizzled off bone – a lesson to his adversaries and those who questioned his authority. He’d learned the hard way in countless fights that you never showed mercy – it would correctly be interpreted as weakness.
    The only thing people respected was raw power, and Mosises understood that it was a good idea to demonstrate it from time to time. As he advanced in years, younger bucks – like the five Rolerno brothers who were now soaking in gasoline – sought to test him. It was inevitable, but they had underestimated his vitality in his winter years, and now were paying the ultimate price.
    Another howl greeted him as a second victim ignited, and he withdrew a cigar from a case in his breast pocket and snipped the end off. He took his time lighting it, pausing as he did to eye the coil of oily black smoke rising from behind the barn.
    The one thing he could never get used to was the smell. It stayed with you for days, he knew from experience. One of the negatives of being the dispenser of justice in a kingdom of his making.
     

Chapter 6
    The Seylene ’s powerful engines thrummed underfoot as the four rescued fishermen took seats in the large galley area while one of the crew made them coffee. The ship had resumed steaming toward Panama, still rocking slightly from the larger than normal beam seas.
    The captain entered the galley and offered the fishermen a grim smile.
    “Sorry about your boat. What happened?”
    “Long-range trip. The storm caught us by surprise. We thought we could outrun it, but we had engine problems, and then one of our through-hulls gave in the big waves. We did the best we could, but the boat was too old, and with no power…” The fisherman didn’t need to finish the thought.
    “You’re lucky we were in the neighborhood.” The captain looked around. “Let’s see if we can get you some dry clothes, at least.” He looked at his crew. “Gentlemen? Do I have any donations?” Several of the seamen bobbed their heads and moved to the galley door. The captain looked back to the fishermen. “If you’ll wait here, we’ll get you outfitted shortly.”
    The fisherman watched the captain return to the bridge and gave the seaman across from him a wan smile.
    “Thanks for