“Right.”

Felipe Maria Jesus Gonzalez Escaverada is swarthy, unshaven, in his late twenties, cuffed hand and foot. Maybe they tranquilized him, or simply beat the hell out of him already; he’s not fully conscious, anyway. But Magnus knows Tallboy has adrenalin and testosterone on hand: if necessary the kid brother could be very alert in seconds. The boys dump the kid brother onto the gurney and strap him in with hospital-style restrainers. Now the screen splits: one half is Hercules Lee looking very sick on some hill in the Andes, the other half is Felipe Maria Jesus Gonzalez also looking very sick strapped to the gurney in Bangkok. In Columbia they are watching the same split screen.

“Ready?” Tallboy asks.

“Ready.” The thick Hispanic accent booms over the sound system.

Tallboy looks to Magnus for strategic advice: what do I do now?

“Ask if they’re ready to talk. Tell them what a childish waste of time this all is, waste of money too. It’s ridiculous in this day and age.”

Talking into a microphone, Tallboy repeats what Magnus has said, word for word.

“It’s a matter of honor,” the Hispanic voice says from the speakers.

“It’s a matter of two little kilos of coke,” Tallboy corrects. “What’s to get macho about? Are you in business or do you spend all your time playing with yourself?”

“Don’t get cheeky, flat nose.”

“At least I don’t have a whole forest growing out of my nose. Do you grow coca in there?”

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