It’s two in the morning by the time the trespasser finally breaks. I don’t enjoy torture as much as Esguerra does, so I let the guards have a go at the guy first. They pummel him, breaking a few ribs, and then I ask him what he’s doing here. He tries to lie, claiming he came to the estate by accident, but after I do a few rounds with my switchblade, he begins to sing and tells us all about his employer, a powerful drug lord from Bogotá.
“Do these cabrons never learn?” Diego says in disgust when the man’s speech devolves into sobbing pleas for mercy. “You’d think they’d know better than to try this s**t. Sending this joker to find holes in our security—could they be any stupider?”
“They could.” I step toward the blubbering man and slice my knife across his throat, putting him out of his m
