service.”
Danielle introduced herself and then pointed to Hawker. “He’s our transportation specialist. He’ll be doing the inspection.”
Medina seemed unconcerned.
“Isso bom,”
he said. “That’s cool.” He waved his hand toward his sedan. “Ride with me. I’ll take you over.”
“Just show us the way,” Danielle said. “We’ll follow.”
“Okay,” Medina said. “No problem. Stay close, then—there are many streets but not enough signs, you know? Easy to get lost.”
Danielle assured him that she would stay close and Medina began walking back to his sedan.
“When did I become the transportation specialist?” Hawker asked.
“Just now,” she said. “You’ve been promoted. I hope you know something about boats.”
“They go in the water, right?”
She smiled and started the engine while Hawker watched Medina.
As the man climbed back into his car, Hawker scowled. “He’s not alone.”
Danielle had scanned the car earlier, but there was no way to see through the darkened windows. “Are you sure?”
“He looked into the back when he opened the door. A brief pause as he made eye contact with someone.”
The headlights of Medina’s car came on and it began to move, making a wide circle, swinging close to them and then heading back the way it had come.
“Do you think that’s a problem?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s good. Then again, you didn’t come alone either. Maybe he’s afraid of you.”
She took her foot off the brake. “He wouldn’t be the first.”
Hawker glanced at her. “Or the last, I’ll bet.”
Danielle followed Medina through the narrow maze of streets. In a few minutes they had passed by the Puerto Flutante, the floating harbor built by the British in 1902, with its amazing system of docks and jettiesthat rose and fell with the level of the river. From their vantage point the docks appeared low, near the limit of their downward travel, the result of a rainy season now a month overdue.
Farther on, they reached the oldest section of the waterfront. Here the jetties were little more than a tangle of crooked, wooden fingers. The small boats crowded them from all directions, like worker bees surrounding their queen. Two, three, even four rows deep, so many boats that some could not even find space on the dock for a rope and had to tie off to other vessels. Danielle imagined the congestion in the morning, the chaos of an aquatic rush hour that she and her team would slip away in.
Medina made a right turn, away from the crowded edge and down a patchy, uneven road that led inland. A half mile later, he stopped beside a black steel gate, waiting as it slid backward along a greased metal track. When it had retracted far enough Medina drove through.
Danielle moved the Rover up to the track.
She looked around. The area was cluttered with vehicles and pieces of construction equipment. Stacks of oil drums vied with containers and other bits of junk for space. “A lot more commercial than I’d have guessed.”
Down at the waterline, a group of men worked beside a small boat, beneath the glare of two floodlights. “I guess that’s your boat,” Hawker said.
“And if we want it, we have to go inside.” She took her foot off the brake and, with two bumps, they eased across the track and the steel gate began to close behind them.
Medina, now out of his car, directed them across the lot to park near an old white pickup truck. Danielle pulled in next to the truck. She turned toward Hawker to speak, but didn’t get the chance.
With his left arm Hawker reached out and slammed her back against her seat. His right hand came up, a heavy black pistol in his grasp, swinging toward her face. She turned away and shut her eyes. In that split second of darkness she heard an explosion and felt a flash of heat across the side of her face.
She opened her eyes to see a man falling away from the Rover, an Uzi machine pistol in his hand, a fedora hat falling to the ground
Danielle introduced herself and then pointed to Hawker. “He’s our transportation specialist. He’ll be doing the inspection.”
Medina seemed unconcerned.
“Isso bom,”
he said. “That’s cool.” He waved his hand toward his sedan. “Ride with me. I’ll take you over.”
“Just show us the way,” Danielle said. “We’ll follow.”
“Okay,” Medina said. “No problem. Stay close, then—there are many streets but not enough signs, you know? Easy to get lost.”
Danielle assured him that she would stay close and Medina began walking back to his sedan.
“When did I become the transportation specialist?” Hawker asked.
“Just now,” she said. “You’ve been promoted. I hope you know something about boats.”
“They go in the water, right?”
She smiled and started the engine while Hawker watched Medina.
As the man climbed back into his car, Hawker scowled. “He’s not alone.”
Danielle had scanned the car earlier, but there was no way to see through the darkened windows. “Are you sure?”
“He looked into the back when he opened the door. A brief pause as he made eye contact with someone.”
The headlights of Medina’s car came on and it began to move, making a wide circle, swinging close to them and then heading back the way it had come.
“Do you think that’s a problem?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s good. Then again, you didn’t come alone either. Maybe he’s afraid of you.”
She took her foot off the brake. “He wouldn’t be the first.”
Hawker glanced at her. “Or the last, I’ll bet.”
Danielle followed Medina through the narrow maze of streets. In a few minutes they had passed by the Puerto Flutante, the floating harbor built by the British in 1902, with its amazing system of docks and jettiesthat rose and fell with the level of the river. From their vantage point the docks appeared low, near the limit of their downward travel, the result of a rainy season now a month overdue.
Farther on, they reached the oldest section of the waterfront. Here the jetties were little more than a tangle of crooked, wooden fingers. The small boats crowded them from all directions, like worker bees surrounding their queen. Two, three, even four rows deep, so many boats that some could not even find space on the dock for a rope and had to tie off to other vessels. Danielle imagined the congestion in the morning, the chaos of an aquatic rush hour that she and her team would slip away in.
Medina made a right turn, away from the crowded edge and down a patchy, uneven road that led inland. A half mile later, he stopped beside a black steel gate, waiting as it slid backward along a greased metal track. When it had retracted far enough Medina drove through.
Danielle moved the Rover up to the track.
She looked around. The area was cluttered with vehicles and pieces of construction equipment. Stacks of oil drums vied with containers and other bits of junk for space. “A lot more commercial than I’d have guessed.”
Down at the waterline, a group of men worked beside a small boat, beneath the glare of two floodlights. “I guess that’s your boat,” Hawker said.
“And if we want it, we have to go inside.” She took her foot off the brake and, with two bumps, they eased across the track and the steel gate began to close behind them.
Medina, now out of his car, directed them across the lot to park near an old white pickup truck. Danielle pulled in next to the truck. She turned toward Hawker to speak, but didn’t get the chance.
With his left arm Hawker reached out and slammed her back against her seat. His right hand came up, a heavy black pistol in his grasp, swinging toward her face. She turned away and shut her eyes. In that split second of darkness she heard an explosion and felt a flash of heat across the side of her face.
She opened her eyes to see a man falling away from the Rover, an Uzi machine pistol in his hand, a fedora hat falling to the ground
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