“You’re not a man. Men do not talk like that. Only boys, women and Chinks.”

Tallboy, fuming now and picking up a pair of pliers: “Okay, I’m starting with the left ear.”

“Me too,” says the Hispanic voice.

Magnus cannot stand to watch. This is a preliminary skirmish, anyway, no new stage in the negotiations will be reached before both victims are properly softened up with a few minor body parts ripped to shreds, gags off, screaming the place down. McKay needs a drink, preferably where he will not hear the screams.

He leaves the warehouse and passes between ten of Tallboy’s men who are on guard outside. Magnus knows the area and heads toward the river. Small Ma & Pa shops sell beer, basic provisions and cigarettes. Magnus buys a pack of Marlboro Red – he only smokes in extremis – and a can of Singha beer. He checks his watch. His experience of these kinds of negotiations suggests that a good ten minutes of terror on both sides is needed before anyone starts to see sense.

Half way through the cigarette, he hears a sound both muffled and tremendous, then the sky above the river lights up for a moment, illuminating the water, the opposite shore, his hand holding the can of beer and the face of the old lady who owns the shop. Little stars rise and dance amidst the acrid stench of plastic, the crude fragrance of petrol, the primeval aroma of burning wood. He stands and turns to watch the conflagration, less than a block away, quickly diminish to a massive blaze.

With the lightening reflex of a pro, Magnus realizes he misjudged the timing. Obviously, the Columbians knew the location of the warehouse and as soon as Pablo Escaverada, the godfather, decided the torture would have to be taken all the way, he preferred to kill his own kid brother at the same time as Tallboy Yip and his men. He still held Hercules Lee, of course, and therefore had brilliantly gained the upper hand in the incomprehensible war.

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