Reginald Hardy was a Brit and veteran of Her Majesty's Special Air Service, known for its classified engagements on a par with Delta and the SEALs. He was the team's "old man" at forty, born on April first, and liked to say that his arrival was an April Fool's Day joke that Fate had played on his unwitting parents. They had wanted him to be a doctor or attorney, but he'd never made it into college, much less grad school. Six feet tall and stocky, with green eyes and prematurely graying hair, he'd been a crack commando with the SAS and designated marksman—what civilians and reporters liked to call a sniper. A native English speaker, he was also fluent in German, Cantonese, Mandarin and Swahili.
Stanley Dartnell hailed from Down Under, second oldest of the SFX team, six foot two and some fifteen pounds lighter than Hardy's two hundred. He kept his head shaved but sometimes donned a wig if the job didn't fit skinhead chic. Before he joined the SFX team, Stan had risen to captain's rank with the Australia Defense Force's Special Operations Command, equivalent to the other elite fighting units his colleagues had served. Aside from English with an Aussie accent, he spoke Korean, Malay, Tagalog and French.
Last but certainly not least by any means, Nat Karpin, twenty-nine years old, was an Israeli-born sabra who'd performed her national service and then some with Sayeret Matkal, which translated from Hebrew to English as the Special Reconnaissance Force of her homeland's General Staff. Fluent in five languages, she was expert with small arms and explosives, and a stone-cold master of krav maga "dirty" fighting who could probably match Blake Mahoney blow for blow if they'd been thrown together in a cage.
When all of them were seated around SFX's conference table, Grant Mahoney introduced the stranger they'd been eyeballing with frank suspicion. "People, this is Preston Chandler from the DEA," he told them.
"Just say now," jibed brother Blake, grinning.
"If only that would get it done," Chandler replied. "Unfortunately, in the real world—"
"Tell us all about it, mate," Dartnell chimed in.
"Let's hear him out," their CEO suggested. "You might find it…interesting."
"Go ahead, then," Blake spoke for the rest.
Preston continued, speaking through a frown. "I take it that you've heard of Pablo Escobar," he said.
"Old guy who used to run the Medellín Cartel," said Natalie.
"Old dead guy," Blake Mahoney added. "What's it been, like thirty years?"
"Almost," said Preston. "That's assuming that he is dead."
Hardy barked a laugh at that. "Are you taking the piss, old son? Some of us were around to see him killed on CNN."
"And yet," Preston replied, "today we're getting word that he may be alive and well, up to his same old tricks and trying for a comeback."
"If that were true," Nat challenged him, "he'd be an old man now."
"Born in December 1949," said Preston. "Coming up on his seventy-second birthday."
"If we just ignore that pesky point-blank head shot," Dartnell said.
"Ignoring that for now," the DEA man answered back. "The thing is, he'd been seen by folks who knew him well. They claim he's back, and not decrepit like you'd think. Younger, some of them say, around the age he would have been when he supposedly went down at Los Olivos."
"Someone's feeding you a line, mate," Dartnell said.
Preston was nodding. "That's what I thought, too. It's what headquarters thought the first couple of times the rumors surfaced. Then it started getting real."
"How real?" Blake asked.
"Somebody's picking off his former enemies—the ones who weren't in prison or the grave before this started," Preston said. "More recently, they've started taking out some characters who used to be his friends."
"Such as?" Hardy inquired.
"The latest, just last week, were the head operators of La Oficina de Envigado, if you know what that is."
"We're familiar with it," Grant assured him.
"Okay. Somebody snatched its leader and his top lieutenant as they left a club in Medellín. A phone call sent the National Police out to a warehouse in Manrique—that's a Medellín suburb—where they were found handcuffed to chairs and burned alive."
"Remind me to feel sorry for them later," Blake suggested.
Preston ignored that. Told them, "What the DEA is asking, what we need, is for some private contractors to check it out, report back on whatever's happening before it blows up in our faces any worse."
"And you don't trust the law down there," Natalie said, not asking it.
"Who would?" Preston replied. "We're on thin ice with Bogotá as usual." He turned to Grant, asking, "So, are you in or out?"
"We need to talk about it privately," Mahoney said.
After another quick look at his maybe-Rolex, Preston said, "I need an answer by tonight."
"You'll have it," Grant said, "one way or another."
"No later than midnight, or we'll have to call somebody else."
"No problem. Now, if you'll excuse us…"
"He doesn't like us," Natalie observed, when they were rid of Preston.
Grant told them all the obvious. "Nobody with a badge likes private military contractors. They need us, though, when they get through pretending they can do it all themselves and stay within the law."
"Forget the fuzzy feelings," brother Blake put in. "He's DEA. I wouldn't trust him if his tongue came notarized."
"It's what we do, though," Grant replied. "That is, if we agree to take it on."
"It sounds like shite to me," Hardy opined. "Some kind of old wives' tale or urban legend, take your pick."
"Don't know old wives," said Natalie. "And some legends are based on fact."
Blake snorted. "So, the King of Cocaine is a zombie now? It's crap, like Reg said. Has to be."
"That's not the question," Grant reminded them. "The DEA's just asking us to find out and report back."
"From Colombia," Dartnell reminded him. "The goddamn place has been a war zone since the last World War."
"And we've been there before," Grant said. "We made it back in one piece, right?"
"Why push our luck chasing a fairy tale?" his brother asked.
"You haven't asked about the money yet," Grant answered back.
"Okay. Enlighten us," his brother said.
"Two million, plus expenses. After putting half back into SFX, that leaves—"
"Two hundred grand apiece," Blake finished for him.
"Right. On top of which, Preston is offering local support."
"His own men on the ground?" Natalie asked. "Can't say I like the sound of that."
"He didn't, either," Grant advised. "They have a local man in Medellín helping them out. I've got his name and contact info if we take the job."
"Colombian," Blake groused. "That makes me trust him even less."