Chapter One


Ciudad del Este, Paraguay—Saturday afternoon

Sitting at an outside table in front of the Mercado cantina, possibly the slummiest bar in the southern hemisphere, Dax Killian made one more careful checkmark in his notebook, right next to the word "asshole." It was the third such mark he'd made in the last hour—sixty minutes, three assholes.

Not bad.

Things were heating up.

Taking a short swallow of beer, he keyed a number into a small receiver and held it to his ear, tapping back into one of the transmitters he'd planted in the Galeria Viejo down the street.

Three days in this hellhole of a city, with one day left to go, and all Dax really had to show for his efforts was the notebook, and his checkmarks, and an appointment for later tonight that he hoped to hell panned out.

He was ready. More than ready with the deadline looming ever closer—Sunday, tomorrow. Do the deed by then, or have the rest of his life to nurse his regrets. It was a helluva deal. He'd been handed an opportunity here, and he didn't want to fuck it up.

He took another swallow of beer, then popped the last piece of his empanada into his mouth.
Asshole number three was dawdling, taking his sweet time getting to the gallery. Short and dark-haired, dressed in black slacks and a brown polo shirt, he stopped at one of the market stalls bordering the street and looked at a couple of cheap-ass nylon duffel bags.

Maybe he was a guy looking for a deal on cheap-ass nylon duffel bags, but Dax was betting not. He knew a wiseguy when he saw one. A few more moments passed, with the guy moving a couple of stalls closer to the gallery, then he knelt down...