44. MARTIGAN
Someone was fiddling with the trapdoor.
“f**k,” Martigan thought, knowing better than to say anything out loud.
Finally, with a heave and a crack, it flipped open. They had finally discovered him. He blinked up into the shallow moonlight streaming into the smuggling compartment.
“You may as well come out,” an achingly familiar voice said.
He stuck his head up, blinking, until the figure before him flickered and resolved into the smiling form of Pedro Montero. He was unarmed, except for a straight razor, which Martigan knew he had a propensity for flicking open and closed to intimidate his prey. It flicked open now.
“Howling Mad.”
The razor snapped shut.
“Pedro,” Martigan replied, inclining his head.
“It’s Señor Presidente now, Howling Mad.”
“Your brother died, t
