He was very, very broke. The important thing about Mr. Rubin Montes was not his name or his veracity, but the fifty hundred-dollar bills he was offering for Andrew's services, with the promise of much more to come.

It had been a long time since Barnes had held that sort of money. He knew what he had to do for it, and that was fine with him. To fly down to Colombia, pick up a load of marijuana and return, seemed no big deal. Everyone was doing it. True, it was technically illegal, but that only mattered if you got caught. And Andrew, who knew a dozen ways of flying into Florida undetected, had no intention of getting caught. If the morality of drug smuggling bothered his conscience, it was a small voice and quickly stilled. At that moment in time, pursued by creditors and with bankruptcy looming, Andrew Barnes would have struck a deal with the devil.

Which, in a way, is precisely what he did.

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