The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

“If you’ll forgive my saying so, it appears to need attention,” Ordóñez said.

“I’ve got some stuff in the bathroom,” Yung said, and belatedly added, “Thank you.”

Ordóñez skillfully and tenderly removed the bandage, then examined the cracked, crusted blood over the gouge.

“You were lucky,” he said. “Another few millimeters and there would have been serious damage.”

“I’ll send a box of chocolates to your guy with the shotgun,” Yung said.

Ordóñez chuckled.

“I’ve already had a word with him. And if I may say so, his intentions were noble. He was trying to save your life.”

Ordóñez was now swabbing the wound with antiseptic and Yung was trying not to grimace at the burning sensation.

Yung said, “You don’t happen to know a good body shop, do you? My Blazer looks like it was in a war.”

Why the hell did I say that?

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?” Ordóñez said. “And, as a matter of fact, I do. I’ll leave you the address and I’ll also call him and tell him you’re a friend of mine.”

“Thank you.”

“That should do it,” Ordóñez said three minutes later as he let loose of Yung’s freshly bandaged hand. “And can we now have the whiskey you have so kindly offered?”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector Ordóñez.”

“It was my pleasure to be of assistance. And please call me José.”

Yung smiled and gestured for him to precede him out of the bathroom.

“What would you like?” Yung asked, indicating the bottles on his bar.

“The Famous Grouse, please.”

When Yung handed him a glass and wordlessly asked if he would like ice, Ordóñez nodded, said “Please,” then went on: “I used to drink Johnnie Walker Black. But then the Johnnie Walker people took the distributorship away from a friend of mine—it had been in his family for four generations—and I stopped drinking Johnnie Walker and started drinking Famous Grouse, which my friend now distributes.”

“How interesting,” Yung said.

He handed the glass of Famous Grouse to Ordóñez, then poured one for himself.

“We Latins—you must have been here long enough to know this—are like that,” Ordóñez said. “We reward our friends, punish our enemies, and hold grudges for a longtime.”

“Is that so?” Yung said.

“Are the Chinese like that, Señor Yung? May I call you David?”

“We Chinese are inscrutable,” Yung said.

“Like FBI agents?”

“Like some FBI agents. There are some FBI agents, I must admit, who talk too much. I don’t happen to be one of them. I tell you that as a friend. And, yes, you may call me David.”

Ordóñez chuckled.

“Thank you,” he said, then went on, “Speaking of friends, do you happen to know an Argentine by the name of Alfredo Munz?”

Oh, shit!