Cold fear ran down my back. I’d been so cavalier with Samantha because I knew the Spanish angle was bullshit. Who gets ten years for being a football hooligan? Even if I got convicted they’d sentence me to three or four and I’d do two at the most. Probably less. The Sun and the Daily Mirror would quickly be filled with horror stories about all the poor Brits and their mistreatment in Spanish jails. Even the worst offenders would never serve close to ten years. And me, a side player with zero physical evidence to back up the police case, I’d be out in easy time and probably well on my way to winning damages at the European Court of Human Rights.

But Mexico, that was another matter completely.

I was in a world of shit if I went back there.

“The FBI won’t let you send me to Mexico. We have a deal. I’m a protected witness,” I said, trying to keep the tension out of my voice.

Samantha read from the file in front of her and shook her head.

“You have been given exemption from the crimes you committed in the United States. You certainly could not have been given exemption for criminal acts committed in a third country. Last night I called up my counterpart in the Mexican intelligence service. He would be more than happy to have you back in Mexican custody and the Spanish government would be delighted to extradite you. They have excellent relations with Mexico, as you can imagine.”

I stared at her.

Any residual lust evaporated, replaced pound for pound with enmity. There was no way I was going back to Mexico. The place where Scotchy, Andy, and Fergal all had died in horrible circumstances. The thought of returning to that prison at all was like an ice dagger in the heart. You know what they do to gringos in Mexican prisons? Let your imagination do the work and then add a little on top because I’d already goddamn escaped.