Page 97 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
Colombia
Amador Fierro poured another glass of Yamazaki single malt whisky and handed it to Narcisco Tamacas, his third drink in the last five minutes. The fiery El Salvadoran gangster downed it in a single throw. Fierro wanted to tell him that the one-ounce toss disappearing down his throat would cost three hundred dollars in any fine restaurant in Medellín or Bogotá. But there was no point. It was a small price to pay to calm the man down—unless he got drunk, and then he might lose all control.
“Let me call down to my chef. He can prepare a couple of fresh steaks andpataconesfor us.”
“I’m only hungry for blood, Amador. You promised me my father—or Olmedo’s head on a stick.” He threw his whisky glass into the fireplace, spattering glass across the hearth. “And I have neither!”
Fierro saw the man’s nostrils flare, like a bull ready to charge. He and Narcisco were childhood friends. He never feared the man would assault him personally, at least until now. Tamacas was relentless, like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t stop attacking a thing until he cracked it open and got to the marrow. In the past, Fierro could always talk him off the ledge and reason with him. But tonight Narcisco was beyond reason—truly mad-dog kind of stuff.
Fierro’s efforts to calm him down were clearly failing. Maybe the whisky wasn’t such a good idea after all.
He wished Vargas was there to back him up.
“I understand your frustration, Narcisco. Your father is like a father to me.”
“Liar! You could never stand the man.”
“Not true. My father respected your father, and taught me to respect him as well. Sure, he operated differently than I do, but so did my father.”
Fierro’s own temper rose with the volume of his voice. He marched over to the smaller Narcisco and jabbed a finger into his thick chest. “Do you think I didn’t respect my own father,cabrón?”
Narcisco crossed himself sloppily and kissed his finger. “I’m sorry your father is dead, God bless him. But my father is alive, and I intend to keep him that way.”
“My sources inside the prison say he’s safe.”
“For how long? And can you guarantee his life?”
“I’ve sent orders to protect him at all costs.”
Narcisco pressed in closer, nose to nose.
“The same orders that failed the kidnapping? That failed the assassination? What good are your orders, Amador?”
Fierro refused to look away, a sign of weakness. But his peripheral vision caught Narcisco’s hand slipping toward the gold-plated pistol in his shoulder holster.
“ ‘Patience in war is a virtue,’ old friend.”
“Stop lecturing me with your idiot philosophies. Action is all that matters.”
“Action? Action? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? And you think you can do any better, you stupid cowboy? Go ahead and pull your pistol—and see what happens. And then what? You’ll round up a dozen of your men and assault the world’s toughest prison with a couple ofcuernos de chivoand blast your way in?”
Fierro felt more than saw Narcisco’s hand carefully grip the pistol, but the Salvadoran’s rage had blinded him to the fact Amador had slipped a razor-sharp blade into his own hand. The taller Colombian tensed to strike when the lights suddenly snapped off.
Tamacas froze. He was notoriously scared of the dark.
“What’s happening?”
“The backup generator should be kicking on any second now.”
Just then, the generator’s big diesel engine fired up. Room lights flickered on for the span of a breath before crashing out again, dying with the generator outside.
Moments later, a sharp explosion erupted in the distance. Lights flashed like a strobe through the big picture window.
Fierro and Tamacas ran over to it, scanning the compound.
More flashing explosions erupted, rattling the bulletproof window glass.
Fierro froze with indecision.Who was it?It couldn’t be the Colombian Army. They were in his pocket, and even if they weren’t, he had spies who would have warned him in advance. Another cartel? Mercs?
