“Thanks for your help, Geri. Would you see if we could get some beers for the room? Modelo, if you have it. No hurry— we’ll be out and about for the rest of the day.”

“Sí, señor, I’ll make sure you get your cerveza. I hope you enjoy your stay at the Mayan Fiesta.” Geri moved to the next room and gave the door a double tap.

Danny poked his head back into his room. Clay was inspecting himself in the mirror. He tugged a few strands of dark blond hair down over his forehead. Danny said nothing; he knew Clay was self-conscious about his scars at times.

“You good to go?”

“I am. Who were you sweet-talking? I know we’re in Cancún but we’re here for Celine.”

“I was talking to our maid, Groucho. Just asking a few questions, seeing if she knew anything about anything.”

“And did she?”

“Not really.”

“Not really or not at all?”

“She knew about kids going missing but swears the Devil is taking them. It’ll be the chupacabra next.”

“Hmmn,” said Clay absently as he adjusted his shirt. “You got any kit with you?”

“All I could bring was a knife in my bag and my shim set. Too risky trying to hide anything more in your luggage these days.” Danny tapped his fingers against his narrow webbing belt to show where he kept his compact lockpick set, an item he had used many times.

“I’ll have to pick something up while we’re out and about. I wish I had my bowie.”

“Too big to carry, unless you can get a chest rig to go under your shirt. That’s why I like these.” Danny used his thumb to open the blade of his Fox ERT. The sturdy tanto blade was less than three inches long, the edge razor-sharp.

Clay took the knife from Danny. The weapon looked like a child’s toy in his hand. “I’ll find something bigger.”

8

The smell of pancita filled the room, mingling with the grey streams of cigarette smoke that drifted up from virtually every table. Gavin rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, the tripe and chilli broth doing a fair job of numbing his lips. A long swallow of the dark Modelo beer helped to cool things down. He stuffed another of the bite-sized hauraches into his mouth.

The food was only one of the reasons he liked to visit the rural cantina. The beer was ridiculously cheap. It cost more to buy a crappy Coke than a quality Mexican cerveza. The women, if he wanted them, were also very cheap. The half-dozen girls who worked the room had on his previous visits assured him that nothing was off limits, fifty US dollars for an access-all-areas pass. Yet Gavin had no need of such services. Plenty of that to be had back at the compound.

The real reason he felt drawn to the bar was the looks he received from the other patrons. They knew where he was from, knew who his friends were. As he made a circle in the air with one finger he caught the look in the eye of the waitress. There it was. That combination of nervousness and fear, and, dare he believe it, respect?

The good-looking waitress brought a second plate of hauraches and another Modelo to his table.