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had feared. He’d been forced to hail a cab like every other bloke—giving Sanchez a chance to stay with him. Taking a cab maybe meant the kid wasn’t as wealthy as he’d bragged about—but that didn’t matter. Being wealthy had nothing to do with anything at this point.
    “You just want me to stay with this guy?”
    “That’s right,” Sanchez said to his driver, digging into his bag for the photograph of Christian Gillette. He’d snagged the cab right after the young man had gotten his. “Don’t lose him, stay right on his ass.”
    “Do you mind if I ask what we’re doing?”
    “I don’t mind at all,” Sanchez snapped, “but I’m not going to give you an answer. Not unless you’re willing to trade it for your fare.”
    “No,” the cabbie answered quickly. “I’m not.”
    “Then drive.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Sanchez gazed down into his lap at the photograph. Gillette was a handsome man in his early forties who was reportedly worth billions. Now that was
real
money. He chuckled to himself. But even with all that money Gillette could never truly be safe. Not with men like me in the world, Sanchez thought proudly. He could get to anyone given enough time. Even the president.
    He smiled as he watched the cab turn into a neighborhood ahead. Once they’d found the man’s house, he’d direct the driver toward the poor side of town. He needed to rent that house.

4
    GENERAL DELGADO drove the jeep himself, sending the lieutenant who acted as his driver along with the other two officers up to the Cruz farm in the first jeep to wait for him. When the little cowboy had hopped into the passenger side, Delgado turned the jeep around and headed back down the road the way he’d come. Roaring ahead through the darkness once he’d made it out of the S-turn.
    “Thank you for your loyalty tonight, Mr. Rodriguez,” Delgado spoke up after a few minutes of silence. He was convinced Rodriguez wasn’t a member of Department-VI, the army’s counterintelligence unit. Convinced the scrawny rancher with the big hat was simply guilty of making a selfish play tonight. “The Party appreciates what you’ve done, comrade.”
    “Yes, thank you, General. I’m very loyal.” Rodriguez hesitated. “If the Party sees fit, I would be happy to take over the Cruz operation. Mr. Cruz is not loyal like me. He underreports his output, and he probably has double the number of cows on the farm as he claims. I would never do that.”
    Definitely not D-VI, Delgado thought to himself. If Rodriguez had been D-VI, he would have said something else. And the little bastard was probably selling at least as much milk as Cruz on the black market and probably had twice the number of cows he claimed to have as well. But Rodriguez had seen an opportunity and seized it. “I understand. I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Delgado guided the jeep to the side of the road just in front of a small bridge that spanned a narrow creek.
    “What are we doing?” Rodriguez asked, peering around as the jeep came to a jerky halt.
    “I want to ask you about a piece of property I’ve been looking at for a few weeks,” Delgado explained. It wasn’t uncommon for senior Party members—especially senior FAR officers—to receive land as additional compensation. It wasn’t actually deeded to them—it couldn’t be since only the state could own land in Cuba—but they could do whatever they wanted with it. “It’s up on a hillside overlooking this stream. I figure you know the land around here pretty well.”
    “
Very
well,” Rodriguez bragged, jumping out of the jeep.
    Delgado eased out, too, and strode around to the passenger side, making certain he’d been right about the terrain here. “It’s that way,” he said, pointing up from behind the little man with his left hand.
    Rodriguez squinted, trying to follow Delgado’s finger. It was late but there was a full moon, so he could make out the dark shapes of hills in the distance. “Where?”
    Delgado