The only sound in the warehouse was the dripping of water.
"Because the Americans want to figure out what your relationship is with that 'Feathered Serpent Temple' in Mexico."
Scorpion's right hand came out of his pocket.
Samir saw it clearly, he wasn't holding a gun — he had a remote control in his hand.
"Mr. Costa," the African's voice returned to calm, "you're smart. But you made a mistake."
"What mistake?"
"You think you have a choice."
The red light on the remote control flashed once.
Outside the warehouse, on top of an abandoned crane three hundred meters away, a faint laser beam lit up. It was the rangefinder of an anti-tank missile.
At the same time, Samir's phone vibrated.
He looked down at the message from a confidant at another stronghold in the dock area — only six words:
"There are troops, armored vehicles."
Not the police. The police don't have armored vehicles.
October 20, 1997, early morning, off the coast of West Africa, Far Seer.
