“The man in the photo," Omar said, “Is your grandfather and mine.” Melo made a guttural sound, while Ivana's face darkened with anger.
Omar dashed between the traffic lanes, trying to make out the Mercedes driver’s face. But the man reversed, swung a u-turn and sped off.
The Mercedes’s engine came to life with a roar. Omar grabbed Samia around the waist and pulled her between two cars. She cried out in fear,...
‘If one day I am shipwrecked,” he whispered, “and a typhoon breaks my sails, bury my body near the sea in Venezuela.” The words comforted him.
Omar met Celio Natá's flat gaze. The man was the Black Knife: the Ngäbe-Buglé’s secret weapon. A one-man strike force.
What did he need a grandfather for, anyway? He had a wonderful life. In fact, his life was so good it sometimes frightened him.
It’s like we’re cursed. Like that day was a judgement. It was a hammer that struck us all, and either forged us into something better, or...
Wide eyed, Ivana spun and extended the ojbect she'd been holding. Omar saw that it was not a pen, but a small, gold-plated handgun. Pointing straight...
The driver whistled. “Waow. You some big politico? So watchu gonna do about the foreigners snatchin’ our jobs? The Chinos?”
A security guard - a long-faced, muscular man - stared at him disconcertingly. Omar frowned. Why would the security staff be suspicious of him?