The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“I told you I’d do it,” Yung said, some what snappishly, and broke the connection.

He immediately realized, Dammit! He’s right. That’s an important little detail, and the truth is, I didn’t think about a dead cellular battery.

There?

?re two chargers in the apartment, one that fits into a cigarette lighter. I’ll get it and walk down the street and give it to Artigas. Then I’ll charge mine.

He opened the door of the BMW some what awkwardly with his left hand, got out, then started to lock the car.

“Buenos noches, Señor Yung,” a voice said behind him. “I guess it’s really buenos dias, isn’t it?”

Yung felt a chill.

Jesus, the hair on my neck actually curled. I thought that was just a figure of speech.

“You scared hell out of me, Ordóñez!” Yung said.

“Sorry,” Chief Inspector José Ordóñez said. His smile revealed he was more amused than regretful.

Yung glared at him.

“You’re not going to ask me what I’m doing walking the streets of Carrasco at this hour?” Ordóñez said.

“I really don’t give a damn,” Yung said.

“We have to talk, Señor Yung.”

“Some other time, perhaps. I’ve had a busy day and want to go to bed.”

“I really think it’s necessary,” Ordóñez insisted.

“Am I going to have to hide behind the shield of diplomatic immunity to get some sleep?”

“That’s one of the reasons I think we really have to talk. If at all possible, I’d like to keep our little problem from getting involved with the often sticky business of diplomatic immunity.”

Oh, shit! Now what?

“Let me rephrase my request,” Ordóñez said. “I would really like to talk to you. Unofficially, on my word. All you have to do is listen. You don’t have to say anything, unless, of course, you wantto.”

Yung looked at him but didn’t reply.

“What have you got to lose, Señor Yung?” Ordóñez pursued. “A few minutes of your time? And perhaps a small glass of whiskey?”

“Okay,” Yung said. “Come on in my apartment. With the understanding that the next time I suggest you go home so I can get my sleep, you accept it.”

“You are muy amiable, Señor Yung.”

“Charming apartment,” Ordóñez said as Yung snapped on the lights in his living room.

“Thank you. What kind of small glass of whiskey would you like?”

“Scotch, if that would be convenient,” Ordóñez said. “But before we get into that, may I help you with your bandage?”

Yung looked at his bandaged hand. Blood had soaked the gauze and the gauze was dirty.

What the hell? It looked all right the last time I looked at it.

I must have fucked it up crawling under the BMW on the ferry.