Washington, D.C.

Jackson studied the powerbroker who sat behind the massive oak desk. He saw not only concern in his eyes, but dark circles beneath them from lack of sleep. The unmistakable look of defeat and hopelessness was evident, too. They were identical characteristics he had observed in other clients who hired him to venture into god-forsaken places to retrieve a loved one.

While the video played in the background, he glanced at the letter which was written on embossed stationary by a man who considered himself untouchable. A sense of d?j? vu swept over Jackson. Same sh*t, just different names and demands, but the money was good and he was the man for the job.


Senator,

The enclosed video was taken two days ago, and as you see, your son is alive, and in reasonably good health. Robert will be returned to you, mostly unharmed. In exchange, I demand the release of my associate, Manuel Torres, as well as two million dollars in small, un-sequential bills. You have forty-eight hours from the time you receive theses instructions to comply, or I will begin mailing your son back to you? piece by piece.


~E


Jackson?s eyes scanned the richly decorated office, and stopped on family photos from vacations, award ceremonies, and candids. They all showed the same thing, a loving family. Why in the hell a man would risk harm to them for the sake of the almighty dollar, he had no clue. The video ended and his attention returned to Senator McCleary. ?This arrived today??

?Just this afternoon, Mister...??

?Smith,? Jax answered easily, as he read over the instructions for delivering the money, and where to take Manuel Torres. ?This Torres, do you know where they are keeping him?? He didn?t want to hear stories about how the man?s son was important, and excuses for what had brought about his abduction. He had already heard all that when the man agreed to hire him for a standard fee plus expenses. The only thing it meant to Jax was that two million was a drop in the bucket for the Senator to gather.

?He is being held at the Allan B. Polunsky Unit, of course.? McCleary acted as if Jax was supposed to know.

?Right, of course, can you get him out?? Jackson walked over to the man?s well stocked liquor cabinet, lifted a crystal decanter toward his face, removed the stopper, breathed in the scent of an expensive old scotch, and then filled a glass.

?Get him out?? The older man asked incredulously. ?I thought you were the type of man who went in and rescued people from these situations, not bargain with worthless scum.?

?Senator,? Jackson lifted the glass and took two large swallows. ?I am not in the babysitting business and the last thing I want to do is deliver Manny Torres down to some f*cking cartel controlled town, with a sack full of small bills trying for a trade.? He finished his drink, and poured another. ?That?s asking for your kid?s head to be mailed back to you in an express delivery box, and mine to be left on a pike as warning to others of my...profession. Frankly Sir, I love myself a little more than to be that damned stupid.?

In a stunned state of shock, and unsure of what to say, the Senator stared at the man in front of him for a moment. Sighing deeply, he discovered his voice, ?I would have to call the governor, and a few other people, the warden too.?

?All we need to do is get Torres somewhere that isn?t surrounded by concrete and razor wire, snap a few pictures and buy a little time,? Jax finished the second glass and set it on the man?s desk. ?You think you have enough clout to do that??

The man nodded mutely.

?Good,? Jackson said, somehow managing not to reach out and pat the man?s head like a dog?s; instead he pulled a card from the pocket of his thin shirt, and held it toward him. ?Clock is running, Senator. You will wire my fee to this account, as well as the two million, just in case I have to buy my way out. My number is on that card; buy a non traceable trac-phone, with cash, because credit cards and checks are traced, call that number when you have the phone. If I need more for expenses, I will let you know.? Satisfied that his instructions were understood, Jackson turned and started for the door.

?How do I know you will deliver, Mister Smith??

?You found me, you know my reputation,? Jackson kept walking, mentally calculating how much time he had to catch the next flight to Bogata with barely a glance over his shoulder. ?Good day, Senator.?

Outskirts of Los Angeles, California

Sydney Jameson?s royal blue SUV bounced down the dirt and gravel driveway leading up to twenty acres of prime woodlands nestled amongst the Santa Monica Mountain Range. A sprawling log cabin with a wraparound porch came into view through the pines and giant redwoods. She turned off the ignition, removed her sunglasses, and gazed at the serene setting of her childhood home. After a three week, whirlwind lecture tour which took her from the west coast to the east coast and back again, she was damn glad to be home.

Exiting her vehicle, Syd grabbed her gear from the backseat, and headed for the front door. She unlocked it and stepped inside, stumbling over a pile of envelopes, anthropology magazines, and weapons catalogues strewn across the entranceway. One slender hand flew out to grip the door in an attempt to remain upright. At last she got her feet under her, and stepped cautiously through the obstacle course until the path was clear.

Her dad was notorious for setting ?traps? around the house and property to deter unwanted visitors, but this was ridiculous. She wondered where the ancient Neanderthal was anyways.

?Dad? You home?? She called out, dropping her gear in the entranceway, and making a beeline for the kitchen. A cold beer sounded good right about now after her long trip and the tiring drive home.

There was no answer, and Sydney shrugged her shoulders. It wasn?t the first time she had come home to find her father gone. In his line of work, things often came together pretty quickly once he accepted a job, and he would be on the move. Only Kidnap and Rescue?s, especially those that involved children, required a bit more finesse and attention to detail before he could set them into motion.

Sydney opened the refrigerator and extracted a Bud from the top shelf. She flipped the cap into the trashcan and took a long pull of it. It was then that she noticed a folded sheet of paper on the counter with her name on it. Setting her beer on the flat granite surface, she picked up the piece of paper.

?Syd,

Stepped out to find me some good Jamaican Blue Mountain Coffee, we were out. Be back soon.

Love, Dad.?

?Good luck on your hunt, Dad.? Sydney murmured before pocketing the note, retrieving her beer, and heading for the bedroom. She loved her work as a Linguistic Anthropologist and lecturing to college students about her travels and endeavors to document endangered languages was a task she did not take lightly. However, for the immediate future, the only things she was interested in were a cool shower, clean clothes, hot food, and a good night?s sleep.

Texas Hill Country


Deek Owens, coffee in hand, walked out onto his deck, which overlooked what was, in his opinion, one of the most breathtaking views God had created. The sun was rising over the distant mountains and last night?s rain had left a clean fresh smell in the air. It was not often lately that he had the opportunity to wake up in his own bed; in a cabin he built that was his private haven, secluded from the rest of the world.

Born in San Angelo, the hills of Texas had always been home, but this place was where he allowed himself to be just plain Deek. Not Deacon, the third son born into a military family, who rebelled against the unrealistic expectations of his father. Or Brother Owens, who studied theology to piss off his family who never bothered to try and understand him or respect his own ideals and ambitions. Nor was he known only as The Chameleon, who was recruited by the CIA from the seminary and plunged into covert operations for the following fifteen years, until he quit to freelance. Very few ever saw the man he could be here. Most saw only one of the many faces he created to hide behind.

The ringing sound of his satellite phone jarred the serenity of the moment. Taking a deep breath and changing into character mode, he crossed the deck, and entered his bedroom through sliding glass doors. Glancing at the number, he knew work would once again pull him back into the ugliness of a world in chaos.

An hour later he was packed and on his was to San Antonio International Airport, catching a flight to Bogota, Columbia.

Puerto Arturo, Peru coordinates 7 degrees 7' 25" South, 76 Degrees 29' 46" West

Laying on top of a massive boulder, Reese Jameson stared at the corrugated tin buildings below through the Schmidt & Bender 3-12x50 Scope mounted on top of the M4A03 Rifle. Several men worked with toxic chemicals, while others carried an assortment of containers back into the cover of the buildings. All of this done under the watchful eyes of the paid rebels, who acted as guards under the cartel?s men, should someone decide to make a move against Garcia.

Juan Alvarez Garcia was known as a hero to the few townspeople of Puerto Arturo, often hiring local men to work in the manufacturing of his cocaine, affording them all luxuries above what their normal pay of less than two dollars U.S. could ever get them. If a young couple married in the village, he was there with gifts of cash, televisions, and even Blu-Ray players, all in exchange for their loyalty. It was a small price to pay from the man known as 'The Butcher of Peru' in other circles. As one of Pablo Escobar?s lieutenants, Garcia learned from the best, and adapted his own sadistic ways of sending messages to officials that he was not one to be crossed.

Shaking his head, Reese?s thoughts turned to a time when he knew little in the ways of hunting the missing and relied only on survival training he learned in the Army. Yeah he was green, but he learned quickly. The price of failure had been too damn high for him to even consider quitting. In the end he found Sydney, rescued her from her mother?s twisted family of drug lords, and had learned the skills he needed to start his own business. Garcia had taken the wrong kid hostage, and Reese was going to see that he paid the price.

Today he was here to find answers as well as rescue and return a loved one to his family. After three weeks of following him being moved from place to place in Columbia, the trail had led Reese to Peru. Locating missing people was his life?s work and he was good at it. RSJ International, the company he co-owned with his daughter, specialized in ?complete security? as well as kidnap, ransom and rescue. Their success rate was well above the average for other businesses in their field. Yet, his gut and his experience were both telling him that the huge increase of missing in this area of the world was abnormal. Finding the reason and his missing client, he knew was going to take more than he alone could do

Jameson Cabin, Outside Los Angeles

?Since its discovery in Hungary, The Rohonc Codex has been studied by numerous experts and scholars in archeology, paleography, and anthropology. The text is believed to be religious in nature, with the code accompanied by illustrations and symbols of Muslim, Christian, and pagan in origin.? Sydney pressed the pause button on the mini tape recorder in her hand, before continuing, ?There are some experts who believe that the, as of yet, undecipherable text is the product of a very cleverly crafted hoax, but I am not of the same mind. The 448 pages of transcribed unique symbols are 10 times higher than any known alphabet in the world. It is my conclusion that more concentrated studying of The Rohonc Codex needs to be done in order for it to be properly deciphered and its ancient creators identified.?

Sydney pressed the off button on the mini recorder and set it down on top of her desk. She would later transcribe her article into print on her PC and then send it off to her editor, Elyse Graham, who would see to it that it was sent out to the appropriate anthropology journals and magazines for which she was a regular contributor.

As much as she tried to concentrate the nagging voice in her head would not let Columbia go. She mused for a moment on where to start, then rose from her chair, and crossed the room to her father?s desk. Thirty minutes after Sydney delved into the scattered mess of papers and maps, she was still clueless as to the whereabouts of her father. A search of his desk drawers came up empty as well.

?Damn it!? She muttered in frustration.

Sydney eyed her father?s computer. Maybe she would find something. Once it booted up, she got down to business. In college, Syd had a roommate that paid tuitions by illegal computer hacks and she picked up a few ways of moving into and out of systems undetected. Syd did it because she could, not because she needed the money. A few keystrokes later, she was going through personal files, looking for anything that she could use to find him.

"Hmm, no new case there," she scrolled through the files. "No reservation confirmations," Syd sighed, knowing that her dad had covered his tracks even better than usual, which meant that he was up to something he didn?t want her knowing about.

Bogot?, Columbia

Father Thomas moved through sea of wall to wall bodies in the airport and thanks to his collar, breezed in and out of customs. Exiting onto the street and heading towards a taxi, he was knocked off balance when a bicyclist ran into him. Bag flew one way, while he hit the ground three feet in the other direction.

?Lo siento, Padre,? the worried cyclist apologized as he helped the priest to his feet. A small group of people gathered round them, yet not one saw the cyclist slip a folder into Deek?s bag before handing it back to him.
Placing his hand on the younger man?s head, Deek assured him, ?Todo est? bien, hijo m?o.? A minute later both he and the cycilist were on the way to their seperate destinations.

The hostel Deek chose to make his base was a place he had stayed before. Five small huts surrounded a one larger one, which was a combination office, dining area, and market. The hum of generators also reminded him of the limits to access power supply, but for his purposes it would do.

Once inside his hut, Deek removed the constricting priest collar before retrieving the folder from his bag. He stretched out on the cot, which was provided with the room and began to read about the man, who the CIA was so hot for him to find.Thirty minutes later, he had read, memorized, and burned the file.

Yurimaguas, Peru

Although anything but, dressed casually in a loose cotton shirt, and BDU pants. Reese appeared to be like any ordinary tourist or hiker sitting in the small, open air restaurant. Dark glasses covered his eyes as he observed the target of his business in Yurimaguas. He even snapped a few pictures of him and his lunch companions, while they appeared to be paying off officials to look the other way during Garcia?s business dealings. When they were joined by another taller man, who to Reese looked to be American, his right hand dropped to his pocket, retrieving a blue tooth earpiece, something he picked up in his travels for listening instead of phoning.

?Hola, Senor Johnson,? Luis spoke as he stood and shook the American?s hand. ?I trust your flight was pleasant and you remember everyone here?? He motioned around the table and Johnson?s eyes moved from face to face with a slight nod of his dark blonde head. ?Please, have a seat.? The man to the right of Luis moved over and Johnson lowered into the abandoned chair.

The way Johnson moved told Reese he was much more than he showed in his tailored suit, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and Rolex. ?Is the pa...? About the time the man started to speak, a flock of Belcher?s Gulls flew up from the riverbank, crying out and causing feed back through the earpiece. By the time the noise levels evened out again, he could hear the men laughing, and he saw the American pass over a thick envelope.

?For your trouble, Luis. We are anticipating a few more packages over the next three weeks and expect the same professionalism.?

?Mister Johnson this,? The target was smiling, showing the gold teeth that seemed to fill his mouth while he patted the envelope, ?insures our professionalism. You know how my boss loves to deal with the distraught parents and let his reputation speak more than he does.?

The American smiled and nodded, ?I?ll be in touch.? He took a bite from the plate of fruit on the table before he stood and walked away.

Reese watched the blond as he passed by. He was loose in his movements, alert to his surroundings, and even cast a glance back toward him. Reese inclined his head, a typical American greeting and then turned back to his copy of the New York Times. He had a new target now and waited to make his move until Mister Johnson was in a cab and driving away from the restaurant.

Jameson cabin

?Syd,

The store was all out of the brand of coffee I like, so I am going to check out another one to see if they have it. Love you, Dad.?

The recorded message was short, sweet, and cryptic as usual.

*Or was that more cryptic than usual?* Syd thought wryly, as she set her cell phone down on the coffee table.

Usually when her dad left her a message, he would include any number of things. Sometimes it would be times and dates of where he would be while on a job. At least a phone number or a contact she could trust to relay information to him if one of their many employees around the world needed his expertise on a job. If he were unreachable by cell, then a series of latitude and longitude combinations allowing her to track his movements if things turned dicey and he did not check in with her by a set date. The same requirements he expected from anyone working for them. Yet there was none of that in this message.

Sydney let out a frustrated sigh and took a deep breath. She was his partner damn it and her old man was going to keep her in the know, or by God, there was going to be hell to pay. Methodically she began to count down the bits of info she could verify, which was surprisingly very little, on the tips of her fingers.

Fact one: The last conversation she had had with her father was two days into the lecture tour she was on. They chatted about the normal things, her chiding him to include a bit of greens and fruits in his daily diet; him reminding her to be alert to her surroundings, what bills were due, etc. He gave her no indication that a new job had come up, so either he was already working it when they talked or had taken it shortly afterwards.

Fact two: He had left an elusive note on the counter talking about going out for Jamaican coffee. Trouble was, she knew that the only imported coffee he drank was Columbian.

Fact Three: Discovering the Columbian airline schedule she found amid the mess on his desk and the obviously lack of any other source of info pertaining to the job he was working.

While she did not know what exactly was going on or what her father was doing, two things were very clear to her. One, her dad had gone to Columbia; and two, he did not want her anywhere near there. The decision of what she was going to do next was already made before she had finished thinking through all the facts as she knew them.

?See you soon, Dad.?

Palacio Arce,
Casa de Garcia.

Puerto Arturo, Peru.



Juan smiled as he greeted his guest, Eduardo Rotilot, one of the leaders of the ELN. There was a brief embrace of the men before they walked into the house.

?Welcome to my home, Eduardo.? Juan offered his guest a cigar along with a glass of Woodford Reserve. ?I first tried this bourbon while attending the Kentucky Derby, by far my favorite, as I am sure a man of your tastes would agree.?

Eduardo nodded, accepting both from his guest. There were several minutes of small talk while touring Juan?s home prior to being seated at a long table, while waiting for their meal. Rotilot couldn?t help but notice the Picasso behind Juan?s head, as well as the Moda three tier, square chrome chandelier that hung over the table. He owned several nice pieces from this part of the country in his own home, but nothing on par with the exquisite items that the sale of large amounts of drugs afforded his host.

Juan?s eyes lifted to see what may have captured his guest?s interests and smiled. ?Swarovski Strass Bordeaux Red Crystals,? the pride he had in his possessions evident in the tone of his voice. ?However, I am sure you are not here to discuss my decor,? he said as fabulous meals were placed before each man. A quick prayer was offered before he cut into his Kobe Beef. ?Please feel free to talk, but enjoy your meal as well.?

Eduardo looked at the steak on his plate, next to the grilled asparagus and salmon. ?I would rather wait until we finish this fine feast, Don Garcia,? he said with a slightly apprehensive smile. Juan Garcia had a reputation for being very harsh when it came to matters of his businesses and Eduardo relaxed enough to take pleasure in the meal when his host agreed.

The steak melted in his mouth. Afterwards, he enjoyed a warm brandy and Noka Vintage. Juan Garcia was known for his taste, his heroism to the local townspeople, and for his violent streak.

They retired to Juan?s office and the door was closed behind them. His host his host passed him to sit behind the large, mahogany desk, after a motion from his hand indicating that Eduardo sit.

?So, what is it that we have to discuss, Eduardo?? Juan asked and then took a sip from the brandy snifter in his hand. One of the many beautiful women in residence walked through the office leaving a note on the desk before stopping to light the cigar he?d just cut the ends from and planting a kiss on his cheek.

Eduardo waited for the distraction to leave the office and closed the side door from which she had entered. ?We have a problem with the DEA and some of the rogue ELN, who are helping them interfere in our...your operations.? Eduardo cut straight to the point, watching as Juan lifted the note from his desk and read it before he stuck his gold lighter to the end to set it ablaze. ?So far I?m not able to find any of my men talking, but some of them in Colombia...? He watched Juan with the fire, then as the blackening paper fell into the brass trashcan by the desk.

?I thought we paid off the proper officials in the DEA,? Juan said as he took a deep drag on the Cuban cigar. ?You told me you handled that personally,.?

?I did handle it personally, Don Garcia.?

?But?? Juan?s gaze leveled on the man across from him as he asked the question, causing Eduardo?s skin to crawl.

?But that Special Agent in charge was murdered and the new one...she cannot be bought.?

?Especially with no money, Si??

?With any money, Don Garcia. She?s clean and dedicated to her job. She worked hard to get to where she is within the agency.?

?Does she have a family??

Eduardo shook his head in a silent answer.

?Friends or anyone that can be used as a message to her??

?No one especially close to her, Don Garcia.? Eduardo finished the brandy, trying to soothe his nerves, and nearly jumped from his skin when the woman opened the door again before walking in with a covered box, placing it on the desk.

?Ah, I was waiting for this!? Juan said excitedly. ?Thank you Maria,? he added in afterthought.

?A special package, Don Garcia?? Eduardo asked, trying to keep his voice even in tone.

?Very special, Eduardo my friend.? Juan stood from his chair, placing the cigar in a large, crystal ash tray before picking up an envelope. ?This,? he began sliding pictures from it, ?is a photo of you and the last agent, as well as the ELN that are giving our...MY operation a problem.? He walked around the desk, showing the pictures to his suddenly shaking guest.

?Don Garcia, I can explain...?

?You can explain nothing!? Juan shouted and two armed men stepped into the room, both weapons trained on Eduardo?s back. ?Also in the photographs are your daughters, at their private schools, who are being picked up today by my son, you remember him, do you not?? Juan smiled as Eduardo?s eyes widened with the knowledge of his daughters falling into the hands of a man who did sordid acts with young girls.

He thought for a moment he could end the terror if he could reach the small pistol in his jacket pocket, but everything was now set into motion. He could not save his daughters, but maybe himself and his wife.

?You may enjoy this package as well,? Juan said as he pulled the cover from the box and reached inside to tangle his fingers in long, black hair, lifting Eduardo?s wife?s head to show him. ?She was so beautiful, even in this look of fear and death.?

?You son of a bitch!? Eduardo screamed while he reached for the pistol and then his world went dark.

Juan wiped the machete?s blade on the cheap suit his guest wore. He smiled as he dropped the head he held in his hands to join the one on the floor.

?Mount his head on the road into town, a warning to other of his ELN, then go to his home, kill the servants, retrieve what is left of my money, and burn it to the ground.? He stepped over the pool of blood that was forming on the otherwise immaculate wood flooring. ?On the way out, send in Maria with her sister to clean up this mess.? He passed the men after giving his orders, knowing they would comply.

Bogot?


?Yeah?? Jax answered the phone as the whore walked from his room. She was three things that he liked, clean, beautiful and cheap.

?Hola, Jax.? Reed?s voice came through the static. ?Line is secure, it?s me talkin? to static. Catch you at a bad time?? The man?s smile could be heard through white noise and a sketchy connection.

?What do you want Reed, it?s late.?

?Just thought you should know you aren?t alone down there in the jungle.?

?You see Reed, this is how I know you?ve never left that pit of a home you live in or done anything than watch movies.?

?Huh??

?The jungle is quite a ways from where I am.?

?Oh, well Arnie movies...?

?Who?s down here, Reed?? Jax interrupted his tech and got the man back on track.

?Oh, right.? There was a nervous laugh on the other end of the line. ?Spooks I am thinking. Someone?s pulled a file from a pretty high shelf.?

?My file??

?No man, Mister Rogers?s file.?

?What did they learn about me, Reed??

?Well, I threw in a few high powered names embellished a bit on your impressive career and took away quite a bit of the really juicy parts.?

?Find out who?s down here, Reed. I don?t need to have a run in with any company a**holes.?

Jax hung up the phone, leaving the man talking on the other end, he didn?t hear what was being said, nor did he really care. This simple job was becoming more of a headache than the payment was allowing for.

He swung his legs from the bed and walked to the open window looking over the street below. Pimps were watching the girls. Girls were working the Johns. Police on the take were looking the other way. It was a nice system they had worked out. Everyone was getting a piece, including the Johns.

The phone rang again.

?Yeah??

?Why don?t you ever say ?hello? like a normal person?? Reed asked.

?Who is down here Reed??

?Company man, don?t have a name yet but I am working on it.?

?Great, If they are looking for me...? Jax said with a sigh as he reached for the pack of smokes and shook one out.

?You aren?t on their list for now.?

?Work on it, Reed. I want a name.? Jax hung up the phone again as he walked to the bedside table and picked up his lighter.

La Barra De
Outskirts of Bogota


Sydney, aka Sabrina Jones, arrived at the rendezvous point twenty minutes early. She wanted time to scope out the establishment to assess the danger level. Entering the smoky, dimly lit saloon, her hazel eyes took a moment to adjust to the lighting change. To her left, a long, wooden and scarred bar lined the wall. Most of the rickety looking stools were in use by locals of various sizes, ages, and financial status. Behind the bar was a beefy, tattooed bartender serving drinks. He caught her glancing in his direction and a lewd grin curved his lips as his eyes scrolled down her body, and slowly back up it again. She fought the snarl riding up within her and instead flashed him one of Sabrina?s flirty smiles, before she moved further into the room.

There was a dozen or so circular tables spaced sporadically around the room, some occupied by groups of three or four men, others only held one man. Sydney saw a couple of scantily clad women seated around the room and pegged them as prostitutes. She located a vacant table toward the back and made her way over to it, ignoring the obvious stares of the men and their bawdy comments, and settled onto the chair closest to the wall.

Seated where she was, her back was protected from any threat, and it gave her a clear view of the whole establishment. As she waited for Jaime Delgado to arrive, Sydney gave wide-eyed glances around the room, playing up Sabrina?s personality, all the while studying each of the other patrons in the establishment.

She quickly pegged a group of men at the bar as being members of the ELN, or National Liberation Army, by the easily identifiable white, red, and black patches on their uniforms. Sydney flirted with the bartender when he came over to ask her what she wanted to drink, and again when he set the margarita in front of her.

Ten minutes past their designated meeting time, Sydney saw a short, but muscular man enter La Barra de. He had beady eyes, a handlebar mustache, and was dressed in patched cords and dusty black t-shirt. She watched as he scanned the room, spotted her in the back, and moved toward her. Instead of taking a seat opposite hers at the table as she expected him to, he grabbed her by the shoulders and boldly kissed her amid raucous cheering from the other males in the bar.

Before she could utter a word, he placed his mouth against her ear, and said in heavily accented English, ?Not here.?

Sydney rose from her chair as he dropped coins on the table to pay for her margarita, and then let him lead her out of the place with his arm around her waist. She was unaware that a lone man at one of the other tables was paying a little closer attention to her, than she was aware.

She kept the ruse up until they were both seated in a beat-up jeep bouncing along a dirt road heading back into Bogota.

?Tire encima ahora!? she demanded.

To her surprise, Jaime did as she instructed, and pulled the vehicle over. ?I did not mean to alarm you Senorita Jones. No era seguro para cualquiera de nosotros para llevar a cabo nuestra transacci?n all?

?Why is it not safe??

?Conf?a en m? en esto y dejarlo ir. ?Llevado el dinero como acordamos??

?Yes, I brought your money, but I?m not handing it over until I see the goods.? Sydney told him.

She tensed as he reached across and under her seat, pulling out a leather bag. He dumped it unceremoniously onto her lap and gestured for her to open it. She took out a 9x19 Glock Model 19 and a Smith and Wesson Model 642 snub nose .38 Special, along with extra ammunition, holsters for both, as well as an easily concealable 6 inch Kasper Fighting Knife. She carefully examined each one in turn, before slipping a padded envelope out of her pocket and handing it to him.

After counting the currency inside, Sydney arranged for Jaime to drop her off a short distance away from the Chocolate Hotel. She waited for his jeep to disappear from sight, before she made her way quickly to her hotel, and upstairs to her room. She locked the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. While she was confident in her other self-defense skills, Sydney had to admit, she felt much better alone in Bogota, now that she was armed.

Bogot?

Deliver my soul, O LORD, from lying lips, and from a deceitful tongue.
- Psalms 120:2

Armed with his acquired knowledge of two additional players in the area, Deacon Owens was about to go on the offensive. It was time to shake things up a bit. Jackson Keegan might believe he was the best at what he does, but in spite of eluding him earlier, Deek knew otherwise. Besides, Keegan was no match for the ?chameleon?.

Then there was Reese Jameson. While he knew of the man?s work and his respected reputation, it seemed odd that he would ?coincidentally? be working a case so closely to his, and one thing Deacon Owens did not did not believe in was that serendipity crap.

?Jameson can wait; this one is for you Mister ?Alfonse? Jackson Keegan.?Washing the remains of the black hair dye from the sink, Deek studied his new persona in the mirror. Amazing what a little color, some well place dirt, a scruffy beard, and new contacts could do.

?Hello, Raphael Gomez,? Deek chuckled as he practiced his Columbian Spanish dialect.

Since ?Alfonse ?was seeking information, ?Raphael planned to deliver just enough to bait the hook. Retrieving a clean phone from his bag he made a call to Jackson, just to start the ball rolling.

?I have news about The Senator?s son. Come alone to the Santana Cantina. One hour and come alone.? Abruptly hanging up, he gave the man no time to speak.

Slouching as he made his was to the door, he decided to add a slight limp for dear old Raf. Exiting the hotel, he was almost run over by a beautiful young woman, who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.

?Excuse me? she said, ?Are you okay??

?Si, si,? Raphael assured her as he moved along . Glancing back, he observed her enter the hotel, but could not shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. Mentally adding one more thing to research on his ?to do? list, he continued on to his appointment with ?Alfonso.