Killpath. Don Pendleton
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they turned and walked away, Carrillo saw people filing off the plane. He paused, scanning those exiting the aircraft.
He was not going to leave without a glimpse of the person they had come here to kill.
Carrillo had photos of Rojas on his phone, which he’d studied extensively, not in small part because of her lean, leggy figure and sultry expression.
But no woman matching Rojas’s five-foot-eleven-inch description came through the gate, nor did anyone who appeared to be a federal marshal.
Carrillo watched two men step into the airport. The taller of the two had a gut around him that looked as if he’d seen more time at an all-you-can-eat buffet rather than a gym. His companion was scrawny, his jaw dark with shadow from a day without shaving.
The big man looked right at Carrillo, giving him a once-over.
“Que es esto, gordo?” Carrillo challenged.
The fat guy held up both hands. “No speak-o the Span-o, man!”
“You see something you like?” Carrillo asked him.
Fernando glanced at the big man. “Leave him alone, Ramon,” he said tersely.
The fat man winced. “Sorry. Sorry.”
Carrillo curled his lip in response to the guy’s weakness. The younger man gave his hand a tug, pulling him away.
Carrillo snorted at the tourist and continued following Fernando. His bull-like compatriot steered them toward the washroom, and Carrillo paused just outside.
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