February 12, 1995, Brasilia, National Security Bureau underground meeting room.
The red light of the smoke detector flickered eerily on the ceiling.
Jose Alves, the Vice Admiral of Brazil's National Security Bureau, tapped the table with his thick fingers, glancing over the seven senior officers in the meeting room. An old-fashioned fax machine sat on the oak table, the freshly received Interpol report still smelled of warm ink, and the photo of the Madrid bank president being arrested, with his Royal Family medal, stung Alves' retinas.
"That idiot Carlos messed up the whole thing."
Alves' voice rasped like sandpaper scratching against a gun barrel, "Now the Mexicans want us to hand over someone within 72 hours."
Suddenly, the metallic door was kicked open, and four figures in black tactical gear rushed in. The cold gleam of the M16 rifles' barrels led by Alvin York, the intelligence director of the Mexico frontline forces. His combat boots crushed the cigar butts on the floor.
