The Triple Frontier

Also by Marc Cameron

Tom Clancy Power and Empire

Dead Drop

Field of Fire

Brute Force

Day Zero

Time of Attack

State of Emergency

Act of Terror

National Security

Triple Frontier

A Jericho Quinn novella

Marc Cameron

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Also by Marc Cameron

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Teaser chapter

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2018 by Marc Cameron

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Pinnacle Books and the Pinnacle logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

First Electronic Edition: May 2018

ISBN: 978-0-7860-4273-9

Right knows no boundaries, and justice no frontiers . . .

—Learned Hand

Puerto Iguazú, Argentina

Monday

Nothing says your prompt payment is appreciated like the sight of another man’s severed toe.

Justino Medina stared down at the open ring box on his coffee table, teetered for a moment on unsteady feet, and then collapsed into the cool white leather of his expensive couch. Fernando Richter did not offer a grace period. Delinquent accounts served two very important purposes: they demonstrated Richter’s resolve to the other cartel bosses in La Triple Frontera, and they provided body parts to use as a billing notice for the next name in Richter’s ledger.

Smaller sums might cost the debtor a finger or, as in this case, a big toe. If more was owed, more digits would be taken. From there, Richter moved to the teeth. Justino thought he would rather lose a few teeth than his fingers and toes, but Fernando Richter did not let his victims have a say in these matters. And in any case, Justino and his wife owed such a large sum of money, they simply did not have enough parts to cut off.

Angelica Medina came out of the kitchen carrying a terracotta platter of baked cheese and sándwiches de miga—the trimmed whitebread finger sandwiches ubiquitous to Argentina. Two inches taller than her husband, she had high cheeks and the most exquisite of collarbones. She was absolutely breathtaking, well above Justino’s station, and he knew it. Justino was bald, with an odd little ring of fuzzy hair like some kind of botched monastic tonsure. Angelica refused to let him shave his head or cover with a toupee. She, on the other hand, had thick black hair that she wore around her splendid face like the helmet of a beautiful Amazon princess. He could not understand why such an attractive woman had married a toad like him, unless it was because he could never bring himself to tell her no—as he should have done when she’d suggested they go into business with Fernando Richter, the Paraguayan boss most people referred to simply as The German.

Angelica was a judge in the Misiones district court. As such, she was accustomed to order in her courtroom and the day to day activities of her life. Even a bloody toe on her coffee table could not dissuade her from afternoon tea and a subsequent two-hour siesta. She would certainly not be difficult to find if the time came for The German to start cutting.

Angelica gave her husband a peck on top of his bald head and then set the tray of food on the table, nodding at the bloody toe. Cover that awful thing with a paper towel and have something to eat, my love.

She folded long legs under her bottom and sat down cat-like on the couch, leaning forward to spear a piece of baked white cheese with a wooden skewer the size of a large flat toothpick. A copy of La Nación lay on the couch beside her and she picked it up, flipping through it while she ate.

Justino sat with his mouth hanging open. How can you be so calm?

Angelica looked up from the newspaper and gestured with the wooden skewer as she chewed a bite of cheese. What do you wish me to do? Weep? Chew my nails? I am a judge and you are a well-respected lawyer. We are intelligent people. She pursed her lips, the way she did when she was annoyed. In any case, we have six days remaining.

Six days with no prospects, Justino groaned. My love, if we do not find the money to pay this monster . . . He felt the overwhelming urge to chew his nails, but couldn’t now that his wife had made it sound so cowardly.

This plan was completely insane, but for some reason, Angelica, one of the smartest women he knew, could not see it.

Going into business with Fernando Richter was dealing with a viper. He could be trusted to lie about everything but the time he would come to kill you. Not even an Argentine, he lived instead across the river, two rivers actually—the Iguazú that separated Argentina and Brazil, and the Paraná that flowed between Brazil and Paraguay—in Ciudad del Este, thief among many other thieves.

The Medinas knew of Richter. Everyone in the Tri-Border region did. One of Justino’s clients had once said that The German had cut off his hand for nothing. Another man in the jail had overheard the conversation. Liar! the second man had said. For nothing, The German only cuts off a few fingers.

Until now, Justino had been able to steer clear of any entanglements with the cartel boss and his violent associates. Then Angelica had gotten it into her beautiful head that they simply had to build an addition to their home. Like the devil who came when one uttered his name, Fernando Richter had appeared from the other side of the river and offered to front them 1000 kilos of marijuana. The Medinas could, he said, take the drugs with a load of their soybeans bound for São Paulo, sell it there, and pay him after the fact. With Richter charging two hundred dollars per kilo they could double their money with buyers in São Paulo, easily paying him back his 200,000. It had seemed like easy money. The bulk of all the marijuana grown in Paraguay ended up in Brazil—and little of it was ever interdicted by authorities. Risks were minimal and the rewards were high.

Usually.

For the first time since they’d started shipping soy, their barge had been stopped by bandits on the Iguazú River. The marijuana had been stolen, leaving the Medinas no drugs to sell in São Paulo and therefore no profit to pay Richter back for his advance. He’d graciously given them one month to recoup his investment. In hindsight, The German had most certainly stolen the drugs himself. Justino had no doubt that his men had merely continued down the river to sell the marijuana in Brazil. Any money he got from the Medinas would be a windfall. If they did not pay him, he would simply kill them to keep up appearances. It cost him nothing, and from all accounts, he would probably enjoy it.

Justino leaned back and stared at the ceiling. They’d been happy before all this, padding their regular salaries and shipping income as buscas panzas. Literally belly hunters, they looked for pregnant women among the local population. Blue-eyed blondes of European heritage were preferable, but Guarani Indians were acceptable if that was all they could find. These indigenous women were so desperately poor that they could barely feed the children they had. It was usually a simple matter to convince them to sell one to a family who wanted to give it a better life. If the woman did not see the value of the transaction, Jelly or one of the other men who worked for Angelica would help them reach the right decision.

They had two such women now in the pipeline that were ready to pop, with couples from Buenos Aires prepared to pay ten thousand dollars for each baby. Any other time that would have been a great deal of money—but it was so far from what they needed that it might as well have been nothing at all.

We could sell the house, Justino offered, still unable to eat. Perhaps we—

This is our home, his wife scoffed. And besides, no one would buy it in such a short time.

Justino groaned. Then what do you suggest, my love? I happened to be quite attached to my toes and my teeth.

Oh, Justo, you stupid, stupid man, Angelica said, without looking up from her newspaper. We owe The German a great deal of money. He will surely cut off something much more important than a few toes and teeth.

That does not help me feel better—

Angelica held up her hand, judge-like, focusing now on something in the newspaper. My love, she said, her leg suddenly bouncing with energy. I believe I have found the answer to our prayers. Do you have your mobile?

Justino fished into his pocket, holding up the phone when he found it, and trying desperately to control his breathing.

Good, Angelica said. "Call Jelly and tell him to get the others together. We have a job for them among the porteños."

Buenos Aires?

Yes, Buenos Aires. Angelica turned her copy of La Nación. At the top of the page was a photograph of what looked to be five handsome college students. Angelica tapped the face of the young man standing at the far left of the group. I do not know about the others, but this one is worth a great deal of money.

Justino smiled at his wife and gave a long sigh. She was either crazy or brilliant. These young people looked to be riding their motorbikes on some long journey, an adventure Justino himself had dreamed of before he’d met Angelica. They had done nothing to deserve what she had planned. Still, something had to be done about the issue of The German. If these poor youths could provide the money to pay him back, well, then that was just the way it had to be. Justino took the paper, bringing it closer for a better look at the people who were about to pay for his mistake.

Four of them—two men and two women—were smiling. The fifth man, perhaps ten years older than the others, with shaggy blonde hair and piercing eyes, did not look happy at all.

Buenos Aires

Tuesday, 7:35 a.m.

Bo Quinn finished a breakfast of ham and cheese empanada and strong coffee and stepped out