Double Vision by Fiona Brand Page B

a trail that had gone cold. “What has le Clerc got to do with this?”
    A flush stained his cheekbones. A gun appeared in his hand. He jammed the barrel against the side of her neck. “Give me the account numbers.”
    The instant cold metal touched her skin, she froze. “I don’t know the account numbers. I don’t know what Esther did with the money. And I don’t know anything about le Clerc.”
    His gaze didn’t waver. “I have your daughter.”
    Her heart slammed against her chest. Panic turned to sheer terror. Taylor. She should be at home, watching TV or doing homework, not—
    Her jaw clamped. She had to stay calm, work this out. He could be lying. She had done a training course about coping with armed offenders. She knew the tactics: stay quiet, stay still, use soothing language, give him what he wanted. But in this case she didn’t have what Lopez wanted. “I don’t understand how I can help you. I made a mistake writing the access codes down, but I had nothing to do with Esth—”
    The barrel jabbed into her throat, choking off her breath.
    â€œI don’t believe you,” he said with deadly calm. “And until I’m satisfied that you don’t know where the money is, you and your daughter will do exactly as I say.”

Nine
    Colombia, one week later
    H eat enveloped Dennison as he stepped out of the Cessna onto the rough grass of a private airfield, the only clear strip of land he’d seen for mile upon mile of thick, impenetrable jungle, except for the arid moonscape that surrounded the Chavez stronghold.
    Lopez exited the plane as a dust-covered vehicle came to a stop just beyond the inky shadow cast by the plane. Draping his jacket over one shoulder, Dennison waited for the pilot to unload his overnight bag and studied the vehicle, which looked remarkably like an ancient Rolls-Royce.
    The driver, a young Latino, requested their weapons, then held the door. Shaking his head, Dennison waited for Lopez to take his place, then climbed in. As the Rolls-Royce bumped across the airfield, a second vehicle, this one a jeep bristling with a motley assortment of men and automatic weapons, fell in behind them. If he had needed a reminder that he’d left civilization as he knew it behind, that was it. The Chavez compound was situated at Macaro, hundreds of miles east from Bogotá on a mesa overlooking the Vaupés River, smack in the middle of coca country.
    The Rolls proceeded at a slow pace through the small village, working its way ever higher. The blunt lines of the compound wavered in the distance; the heat shimmer giving the sprawling casa bounded by high, thick walls an almost mystical aspect.
    Fifteen minutes later, the car rolled to a halt outside what could only be described as a castillo. From the air, it had looked impressive. On the ground, it was big enough to take up an entire city block.
    A plump woman dressed in faded black, reminding Dennison of a dusty crow against the pristine white of the walls, hurried down the steps. The woman, who he guessed was Marco’s housekeeper, opened the door for Lopez. Dennison opened his own door and stepped out of the creaking luxury of the Rolls, gaze narrowed against the glare of sunlight off the building as Lopez spoke to the woman. He noticed that she stepped back, her head bowed respectfully. The conversation was brief, the dialect difficult to understand, but Dennison was fluent in Spanish. The woman had indicated that Marco was waiting in the study.
    After the glaring heat, it took Dennison long seconds to adjust to the dimness of the casa, which was built along medieval lines with flagstone floors, vaulted ceilings and enormous fireplaces. Dark, heavy furniture gleamed in clusters, decorating a seemingly endless succession of reception rooms and halls. Faded tapestries and what looked like the weapons and armor once used by the conquistadors hung from the walls.
    A servant