8
A Vile Gift
Diego Rojas gripped the stair rail, and his jaw clenched. His agitation had increased upon learning his personal bodyguards would not be permitted at the meeting. He’d been to many such meetings, but, in his home country of Colombia, he always had the upper hand. Here on Antigua, as Rojas descended the wooden staircase, a single word entered his mind. Vulnerable. The basement was dark and boards creaked under each step. He saw nothing in the darkness below until a man seated in the far corner flicked a lighter at the tip of a cigar. As the man drew against the smoldering tobacco, an amber glow alighted black hair, a thick beard, and eyes like dead glass. The man said nothing.
To Rojas, he appeared quiet, reserved. Yet Diego Rojas sensed something about the man that trouble
