“Michael, I could have had them kill you right now. I’ve known where you are for two weeks now. We were planning the hit, but then this came up.”

“How did you find me this time, Bridget?”

“We heard you went to South America, we put the feelers out. Money opens a lot of doors.”

I grimaced. I really was getting careless in my decrepitude. Should have dyed my hair or grown a mustache; just because I was on another continent I thought I was safe.

“Why should I trust you?” I asked.

“If you don’t, you’re dead. If you try anything, you’re dead. If you mess with me in any way at all, you’re dead. These are hundred-thousand-a-hit Colombian ice men. They’re good at what they do, they’re younger than you and better than you. I’ve told them to take no chances on the possibility of you escaping. I’d rather have you dead and useless, than alive and on the run.”

“So I’ve no alternative,” I said.

“None.”

I stared at the two badass Colombians, shook my head, dismissed the possibility of a play-any move would bring forth their bad side. And also, it looked now like Hector wasn’t coming. So what choice did I have?

“What choice do I have? You win, Bridget, I’ll do it,” I said.

Bridget groaned with relief, which told me that the daughter thing maybe wasn’t a scam. That maybe she wasn’t acting. Meryl Streep would be hard pressed to convey that much information in a groan.

“What do I tell the goons?”

“You say this: ‘The pussy begs you not to shoot him,’” Bridget said.

“You’re not just making all this up to humiliate me before you kill me?” I asked.

“You’ll know about that one second after you say it. Get on that plane. Meet me in Belfast. It pains me to say it but I need your help, you traitor, stool-pigeon piece of shit.”