Free A Touch of Malice by Gary Ponzo Page B

floor.
    “There is an old Colombian tradition,” Santoro stated, “which I have always respected. Whenever a man is about to be killed, a true Colombian will always offer the dying man a last drink.”
    Dr. Grennan had enough strength to show surprise, but not enough to actually come to his feet. He slumped back in his chair while staring at Santoro with a mixture of shock and dread.
    Santoro lifted the notepad from the doctor’s lap without any resistance. “I am sorry, but I cannot afford to have my personal issues leave this room. Either on paper,” the president pointed to Dr. Grennan’s head, “or in someone’s brain.”
    Saliva welled up over the doctor’s lower lip as he began to lose command of his body fluids. A urine stain grew in the crotch of his pants. He was fighting the fatigue and losing.
    “But . . . ,” Dr. Grennan steered his eyes to the hutch and the myriad of choices he had. He seemed to question how he could’ve made such a bad choice of beverage.
    Santoro followed his astonished gaze.
    “Oh,” Santoro said, replacing the cork in the wine bottle, then setting it back down on the marble bar. “I am afraid the entire collection is poisoned. It made no difference which drink you chose.”
    Dr. Grennan’s vitals began to wither as his head sagged back into the cushion of his leather chair. Finally, his arms dropped over the armrests and dangled lifelessly until gravity took hold and slowed the inertia to a halt.
    Santoro bent over the dead man and said, “I do have my regrets, Doctor Grennan. I finally discover a professional who insists I do not need medicine . . .” he waved a hand over Dr. Grennan’s corpse, “and this is how I reward him.”
    The president stood and reached across his desk to push a button on his phone. A moment later, two armed guards entered the room with their machine guns drawn.
    “It is all right,” Santoro assured them. “He is gone.”
    The guards lowered their guns and grabbed Dr. Grennan’s lifeless form with a practiced skill. One on each side, grabbing under the armpit and throwing the corpse’s arms around their shoulders. They lifted the doctor’s frame and dragged him toward the door.
    “Please,” Santoro said with a mildly disgusted expression, “make sure the body cannot be found.”

Chapter 11
    Trent Merrick didn’t know how long he’d dozed off, but when he opened his eyes, the temperature had spiked along with the jungle humidity. Even in mid-morning, however, the thick Amazon foliage had kept the sunlight from reaching the jungle floor. Candles had provided most of the light inside the tent. His leg throbbed under the makeshift splint and he was certain an infection had taken hold. He felt something trickle down the side of his face and when he brushed it off he came back with a handful of sweat.
    Trent’s vision had deteriorated as well. He blinked a couple of times and realized he wasn’t alone. Carlos, Manny Padilla’s goon, sat in the corner of the tent wearing green fatigues and thigh-high boots. His assault rifle casually lay across his lap as he met Trent’s gaze with an apathetic grimace. He had nothing to be concerned about since his prisoner’s left leg was completely nonfunctioning.
    Trent’s stomach growled as he sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the cot. The chain would only allow him to sit, standing was not an option.
    He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and tried to remain as casual as possible.
    “So, Carlos, what time is breakfast served?”
    The soldier sat there with an exaggerated scowl he must’ve learned at guerilla boot camp. “There is no breakfast.”
    Trent’s head pounded. Not only did he have an infection, he most certainly was dehydrated as well.
    “Listen, could I at least have some water?”
    Carlos gripped his rifle in mock anger, but said nothing.
    Trent nodded to himself. He considered how much this goon could even know. He knew it was useless to guess, so he tried to find