I straighten up, only to see one of the men coming at me with a right hook. I parry, blocking it, and follow with a high elbow to his temple. Before his legs can completely buckle from the blow to his head, I kick down on the back of his knee and hear something crunch as he screams in pain. His hands go to his leg, and he falls over on his side, cursing me in Spanish.
Two down, two to go.
Maybe I will come out of this victorious. Time is running short before they have to take me into Mejia. I try to formulate a plan to deliver the most damage in the least amount of time, but my energy is low. The two men glance at each other uneasily, their confidence shaken. They don’t make a move toward me, and I realize I’m going to be the one who has to launch an offensive. I go after the bigger guy first, but before I can take a step, Mejia calls out in Spanish, “That’s enough. Bring him in.”
My head swivels his way. He’s back out on the porch surrounded with five more paramilitary men holding assault rifles. I wonder if that is all the protection he has or if there are more inside and around the grounds.
Most likely, he’s got more protection. I have no clue if that includes Vecindario 18 members, but I need to assume the worst. If I’m going to make it out of here, I’m going to have to battle an entire army.
I’m shoved hard, propelling me toward the porch steps. One of the men shouts at me in Spanish to move faster. I walk Mejia’s way, aware that any one of these men could easily put a bullet in my head if I did something stupid.
Mejia turns before I reach the top step, and the men peel away to let him through the door. It’s only one of them waving his gun at me in a motion to follow Mejia that causes me to move after him.
The inside of the home is tastefully decorated with terra-cotta tiled floors, stuccoed walls, and dark wooden furniture along with high-priced art and silk area rugs.
I follow Mejia into his office, which is done in heavy wood paneling with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. I had not taken him for an intellectual or a man who reads, but who knows… maybe they’re only for decoration.
As I follow him, I’m surprised to see one of the men reach for the door and close it behind us, leaving Mejia and myself alone. He clearly doesn’t view me as a threat.
“Have a seat, Mr. McDermott,” Mejia says as he moves around his desk. I take one of the guest chairs opposite him and notice a pistol before him as he sits in a heavy leather chair. No wonder he’s not afraid to be in this room alone with me.
Leaning forward, he puts his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers before his face, staring at me thoughtfully. “My son was a great man. An attorney, did you know? He was also a husband and had three children… my grandchildren.”
I did not know this. Don’t really care. But I am curious. “If your son was an attorney, I assume he was on the up-and-up. What was he doing at your weapons depot?”
Mejia’s eyes glint with malice. “My son advises me on all legal affairs, but that day, he was there to pick me up. We were going to lunch in one of the nearby villages. There’s an amazing little café that puts all the restaurants in the capital city to shame. It was our tradition to go once a week, and that was taken from me.”
I don’t know if Mejia is telling me this to gain sympathy or perhaps it’s to explain why he wants vengeance so deeply, but I refuse to feel sorry for this man. His son was not innocent—he came through that door firing at Greer and me. But I don’t bother to say that. There’s no sense inflaming him.
“Did you kill him, or was it Greer Hathaway?” Mejia asks.
There’s no way in hell I would ever say it was Greer, not only because it’s untrue but because I would never put her in danger. Greer could’ve been the one to put the bullet between his eyes, and I would still take the fall for her. But I dare not tell him right now that I did it, as I have a sneaking suspicion that pistol will be used sooner rather than later.
Instead, I try to throw him off. “What’s the deal with you and Gayla Newman?”
Mejia blinks in surprise, but I can read the guilt on his face. “I have no idea who this person is.”
I casually cross one leg over the other, making it look as if I have not a care in the world. I laugh at Mejia’s response, shaking my head in amusement. “That’s a lie. Gayla Newman, as I know you are well aware, is the CIA’s director of operations for Central and South America. She has a personal vendetta against Greer Hathaway and sent her here to gather intel on you, not to take you down, but to use it as a way to eliminate Greer without any suspicion falling back on her.”