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think I am a fool? I can guess what you said to him. Don’t you understand, he was no match for Jack Phelps. He was just trying to do his best for you, as he always did. Danny loved you!’
    ‘I know, but I couldn’t forgive him for wrecking the business.’
    ‘He wanted you to stay with him, help build it up again.’
    ‘I need to win. Chase Racing was losing.’
    ‘Oh, it is so simple for you, is it not? There are winners and losers. It’s just bad luck if you happen to be a loser . . .’
    ‘I wanted a competitive drive, not a lame dog.’
    ‘Is this the way they taught you to behave in Japan?’
    He turned away from her and walked into the trees. He’d had enough.
    She called after him. ‘Wyatt, you’re not a man. You don’t have any feelings. I don’t want to see you again unless you can learn to feel.’
    The rain began to fall. A chapter of his life was closed for ever.
     

 
    Sunday January 6th
    Bogota
    Colombia
     
    From the shelter of the doorway, Kruger watched the front doors of the church and glanced down at his wrist-watch. Nine o’clock. The bastard should be coming out any moment now.
    He drew up the zip on the black windcheater and watched the vapour rise as his breath hit the cold air. His right hand felt inside the airways carry-bag that hung from his shoulder and touched the ice-cold metal of the barrel of the Browning Hi-Power.
    Across the road, near the doors of the church, stood one of Ortega’s two bodyguards - smart suit, dark glasses, and an Uzi carbine in his hands. A faint smile crossed Kruger’s face. This was better than he had hoped for: he had been briefed to pull off a stylish job, but this was going to be good fun. ‘Arsehole,’ he said very quietly as he looked over at the other bodyguard, who was waiting in a doorway to his left.
    In his ear, the tiny hearing-aid crackled. ‘We’re ready for him.’
    Kruger smiled again. Two other men besides himself were to assist in the assassination; both were on the rooftops and armed with untraceable South African-made R4 assault rifles. Good men.
    A woman walked past, a tiny child following her.
    ‘Get out the fucking way . . .’ Kruger willed them on, out of the killing-field. He had to admit it was fucking dangerous. But that was the brief - to hit the bastard close to home. There was no questioning this kill, it was logical and correct. This man deserved to be terminated, along with all the vermin who worked for him.
    It gave Kruger satisfaction that few of the professionals would have taken this job. Ortega was dangerous. Kruger knew that even if he killed him, Ortega’s men would exact their revenge on whoever had dared to take his life.
    The church door opened and the smile went from Kruger’s face. The headphones crackled into life.
    ‘Condition red.’
    His hand closed around the butt of the pistol and he started to drop down very slowly, ready to sprint. Other men would have used a rifle or a machine-gun, but Kruger preferred a pistol. He liked to get in close, to deliver what he defined as a guaranteed termination.
    First out of the church were the women and children; the men would be talking to each other inside. The sound of the church bells filled the air, and for a moment Kruger was reminded of his own childhood, the lonely farm and the little close-knit town.
    Ortega was coming out, flanked by his wife and two other women. Shit.
    Kruger knew it was now or never. His two assistants were ready to open fire the moment he gave the command.
    ‘Go!’ he screamed into the microphone concealed in the lapel of his windcheater.
    He pushed his feet hard against the tarmac, every nerve in his body keyed up. He saw the bodyguard across the road clutch at his chest and crumple to the ground - he couldn’t see the other one, but guessed he’d gone the same way.
    The women were parting, he was closing, drawing, levelling, seeing the fear in Ortega’s eyes. Ortega’s wife was coming across his line of fire, silly