"The Policía Nacional de Colombia found the SUV a few blocks from the warehouse."
    "Tell me he was inside, slumped over the steering wheel," Bill said, not bothering to get his hopes up.
    "No dice," Randall replied. "They found his guy Sandoval in the passenger seat. Died of a sucking chest wound."
    "I'm having a hard time feeling sorry for him."
    "And you're such a compassionate man," Randall said with a laugh. "Imagine how everyone else feels."
    Bill imagined nobody felt anything about the loss of Sandoval.
    "It's been eight hours," Bill observed, looking at his watch. "The yacht is gone. Has it been spotted?"
    "No. But we got lucky in Panama. We may not get lucky like that again."
    "He could be headed anywhere."
    Randall didn't argue the point.
    "This is your fault," Bill growled, no longer able to hold his temper in check. "That fucking girl you sent was joke."
    Randall remained silent.
    "I'm serious, Randy. I'd rather do this on my own than deal with people like that."
    Randall sighed.
    "There's only so much I can do," he said, in an even tone. "It's not like it used to be. You aren't inside any longer. That limits the personnel I can send your way."
    "I get the rejects," Bill said, bitterly.
    "If they played by the rules, they would be busy with other assignments," Randall confirmed obliquely.
    "And if I can't trust them, they're useless to me."
    "I don't know what to tell you." Bill could imagine his shrug. "What's your next move?"
    Bill rubbed his face and thought about the question. He needed to figure out where the target was headed. Since the meeting had been interrupted, the target would presumably try to schedule another.
    "I'm going to find the supplier," Bill said, explaining his reasoning.
    "By yourself? Let me make a few calls, see what-"
    "By myself," Bill interrupted. "I'm not buying any more of your dented cans."
    "Bill, there's a reason we always used a minimum of two-man teams," Randall said.
    "Tim worked on his own," Bill replied.
    "And look where it got him. I nice hole in the ground next to his daughter," Randall responded immediately, the words cutting deep. "If you have a death wish, there are more productive ways to go about it. Besides, Tim worked from inside. He didn't set up his own shop."
    Bill didn't feel like having this discussion again.
    "Just call me if the yacht turns up somewhere."
    With that, Bill ended the call. There was nothing left to say and he found himself growing irritated by the excuses. He decided to go for a walk to clear his head.
    What he needed was a good night's sleep, but he hadn't had one of those in eight months. Even when he had a place to rest his head that was more than a mattress on the floor of a flophouse like he and Erin shared in Buenaventura, his sleep was brief and unrestful.
    Bill's mind must have been clear, because before he realized it, he was only a block away from the scene of the shootout the night before. There were police vehicles everywhere, blocking access to the street. Bill walked up to a scruffy looking man standing just outside a police barricade, watching the police work.
    "Que paso?" Bill asked him.
    "Los operadores," the man replied, quietly.
    "What kind of operators?" Bill asked.
    "No, Los Operadores," the man repeated himself, verbally capitalizing the letters.
    "Who?" Bill asked.
    For the first time, the man actually looked at Bill. He looked Bill up and down, taking him in.
    "Where are you from?" he asked.
    "Not from here," Bill answered.
    "Then you should return before you learn about Los Operadores."
    "They did this?" Bill asked.
    "Si. Someone tried to attack them. You see how well that turned out," he said, pointing at the bloodstains.
    "So Los Operadores owned that warehouse?"
    "What does it matter who owned it? Los Operadores used it."
    "I guess they won't be using it any longer."
    "They'll find some place else."
    "Where would that be?"
    Again the man looked at Bill, this time not appraising, but judging.
    "You're crazy if you think I know. You're crazier if you think I'd tell you even if I did."
    The man turned and walked away, not giving Bill a third look. Bill considered following him, asking some followup questions. In the end, he decided against it. The guy seemed like he was telling the truth when he said he didn't know anything.
    Instead, Bill simply watched the police do their work. He imagined that to the cops, he looked an awful lot like the scruffy guy, except bigger.
    After a while, Bill wandered away from the scene. He wasn't going to learn anything else. That he'd learned anything at all came down to dumb luck. Bill didn't mind getting lucky, but he knew luck couldn't be relied upon.
    He needed to stop reacting, and start acting. The first thing he needed to do was find someone who could point him to Los Operadores. Once he found them, he could persuade them to give him information about his target.
    So that's what Bill set out to do. At the first bar he found, he stepped inside. The place was open and held several patrons, despite the early hour. Bill walked right up to the bar and slapped money down on it. The bartender came along quickly enough.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked, keeping his fingers on the cash.
    The bartender looked down at the cash, then up at Bill. He shook his head and walked away. Bill picked up the cash and held it in the air, fanning the bills out for all to see.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked again, loudly enough to get everyone's attention.
    They all looked, but nobody came forward. Bill put his money away, then walked out of the bar. He tried the same routine in four more bars. In the fifth, he finally got a reaction as he walked out. Three men followed him out onto the street.
    Bill pretended he didn't notice, walking at a regular pace until he was around the corner of the building. Once out of their line of sight, he stopped, leaning back against the brick wall. The men stopped abruptly as they too turned the corner. So abrupty did they stop, that the trailing two bumped into the leader, causing him to stumble forward. Watching as they regained their balance, Bill smiled.
    Amateurs, he thought.
    The three men looked nervous, at first. They hadn't expected Bill to stop. Then they saw Bill's smile, and matching smiles slowly crept onto their own faces. As they looked to one another, their smiles grew. Bill took the wad of cash out of his pocket, showed it to them.
    "You want this?" he asked.
    "Si, we'll take it," the leader said, chuckling.
    "Tell me where I can find Los Operadores, and you can have it. Easy."
    "We will take it without telling you. Easy," the leader replied.
    Bill nodded, putting a thoughtful expression on. He shrugged, then dropped the money on the ground between his feet.
    "There you go," Bill said. "I don't want any trouble."
    "You are smart," the leader said, as he bent over to pick up the money.
    "But you aren't," Bill replied.
    Fingers no more than inch from the money, the leader looked up, puzzled. Bill pushed off the wall with his elbows. The man started to move back, but it was already too late for him. Grabbing two handfuls of his greasy hair, Bill drove the man's face down until it connected with Bill's rising right knee. Bill felt the man go slack, but gave him another, just to be sure. Then he let him fall to the ground. Neither of the other men had even begun to move yet, and already, their friend was out.
    "Dónde está Los Operadores?" Bill asked once more.
    Finally, they reacted. They came at Bill together, but one had to hop over his downed friend. Bill took advantage of this by striking out a lightning-fast forward kick to the man's thigh, causing him to tumble face first to the ground.
    The third man wasn't as bad off as his friends. He started off a bit further to Bill's right than the other two, and had a clear lane at Bill. His opening move was to simply rush Bill and take him down with a tackle. Hitting just below Bill's right shoulder, he tried to run through Bill. The problem with that tactic was simple, Bill outweighed the man by a hundred pounds, at least. Even with a lower center of gravity, the man stood little chance.
    Bill moved with the tackle, pivoting against the wall with his left shoulder, using the man's own momentum to carry him in a wide, swinging arc. The man tripped over his two comrades as Bill spun him. Now, he clung to Bill for support, rather than in force.
    Raising his arms above his head, Bill made a fist and brought an elbow down with all the force he could muster, right between the man's shoulder blades. This was enough to stagger him. Bill brought down two more blows, and the man went to the ground, trying to roll away.
    The second man was still scrambling to his feet, having been knocked down twice now, once by Bill, and once more by his friend. He hesitated and held his hands out in surrender.
    "Los Operadores," Bill demanded.
    The guy bolted. He simply turned and ran back around the corner of the building. Bill let him go. Even if he wanted to chase him, he couldn't. Instead, he looked down at the two guys who weren't running. The leader was still out cold. The other guy was still trying to crawl away. His legs were moving, so Bill assumed he wasn't paralyzed. But he'd probably be walking funny for a few days.
    Bill walked over to him and put a boot to his ass. The man sprawled out with is face in the dirt. He turned his head to look at Bill.
    "Lo siento, señor," he apologized pitifully. "Lo siento mucho."
    "Los Operadores," Bill demanded, again.
    "The rug importer," he said. "They sometimes use the rug importer's warehouse."
    "Where is it?"
    "Two streets west," he said. "Señor, por favor. This is all I know."
    Bill believed him. The man was beaten, and his only other conscious friend had abandoned him. Bill left the man where he was, retrieved his money from the ground, and went off to find the rug importer.