but would still allow him to blend into the jungle if necessary. The gray trail-running shoes were less stylish, but sturdy, light, and possessed a tread designed for soft surfaces.
The barking of dogs became audible when they stepped into the humid morning, ahead and to the right but hidden in the foliage. They skirted the clearing that stretched along the front of the house, staying beneath the jungle canopy in an effort to foil possible overhead surveillance.
The scene they finally came upon was, unfortunately, about what Rapp had expected. Two dirt bikes and three 4x4s sprayed with matte camo paint—one with a mounted machine gun heavy enough to nearly bottom out the suspension. The sixth and last vehicle was a spotless Humvee painted British racing green. Like Rapp’s clothes, designed to blend in anywhere.
Seventeen men were either in the vehicles or standing around them. All were wearing full camo and equipped with assault rifles, sidearms, and light packs with water bladders. The exception was Esparza himself, who was wearing his typical five grand worth of designer linen. The only obvious change was that he’d traded his calfskin loafers for a sturdy pair of hiking boots.
Worse were the six dogs. In Rapp’s estimation dogs were usually smarter than their human masters and always more motivated. The mix of breeds was designed more for intimidation than tracking but despite being heavy on the Rottweilers and pit bulls, the pack would still be effective. Particularly if they managed to catch what they were chasing. In this case, him.
“Everyone who works for me has to pass a test first,” Esparza said, speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard over the frenzied dogs. “This will be yours.”
“You’re getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Rapp said. “We haven’t talked money.”
The man bristled, unaccustomed to being challenged. But none of his men seemed to speak English, so he was the only one who registered Rapp’s attitude.
“How much do you think you’re worth?”
“Two hundred and fifty grand seems about right.”
The cartel leader laughed. “A quarter million a year? I don’t even pay Vicente that much.”
“A month, Carlos. Two fifty a month.”
The cartel leader’s bemused expression spoke volumes. He was going to agree. But probably not because he was willing to pay that amount. More likely, he’d created a test that he was certain Rapp wouldn’t survive.
“Done,” he said, pointing to a primitive road leading into the jungle. “All you have to do is make it to a small village twelve miles to the north. Actually, village might not be the right word. It’s just three houses. But one of them has a covered porch and operates as an informal restaurant for the local farmers. Meet me there and you’ll get your first month’s payment.”
Rapp was fairly sure he knew the place—a crossroads where the crappy dirt road met a slightly less crappy dirt road that ran from east to west. The bulky GPS watch on his wrist contained a color screen and was full of topographical maps that he’d downloaded during his layover in Mexico City. And while the tiny screen didn’t have the resolution to depict buildings, the distance and direction was right, and businesses tended to set up at crossroads.
“What if I don’t make it?” Rapp said.
“Then you’ll be dead.”
Rapp scanned the men around him again. Some were overweight, others looked like the run-of-the-mill psycho cartel enforcers, and a few looked like solid former Mexican soldiers. All the gear was well maintained and top-of-the-line. They had weapons, vehicles, dogs, and the home field advantage. In his column, the heat wasn’t too bad this time of the morning and the sky suggested rain was coming. Likely a lot of it.
“Do I get a head start or does everyone just start shooting now?” Rapp asked.
“Ten minutes.”
“That seems light.”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Esparza responded, retrieving an old-fashioned stopwatch from his pocket and making a show of clicking the button on top. “Your precious minutes are already running out.”
Rapp toggled the timer on his own watch and started to run. The roadbed was soft and a little slick, limiting him to a seven-minute-mile pace. The goal was a stream just over a mile from there. Based on what he’d been able to make out on the topo, it was steep and narrow enough to neutralize even the dirt bikes, and the reliable water supply gave him a decent chance of running into a human settlement where he could scrounge supplies.
The critical component at this point was