The building was a simple single-storey structure; like many others they had passed it was constructed from cinder blocks, with a corrugated tin roof. A wooden stand near the entrance was decorated with remnants of weatherworn bill posters. A screen door obscured the interior.

Two Isuzu pickup trucks sat side by side, one dust-free and in showroom condition while the second looked like it had been rescued from the crusher. To the left of the trucks stood three battered motorbikes.

The brothers exchanged a glance as Clay shut off the engine.

“Is that the same dog that you gave my packet of chips to?”

Danny followed Clay’s pointing finger and smiled as he spotted a nearly identical pooch as the one in Chacchoben. Same sad eyes, same mangy fur, same hole in its ear. “Can’t be the same dog. Maybe they’re cousins.”

Danny climbed from the vehicle. He stretched his legs and back then rolled his shoulders, enjoying the sensation in his muscles. “You ready to dance?”

“Shined my shoes especially.”

“Alrighty, then. Give me a couple of minutes, then you can come in.”

It was something they had done several times in the past. The reaction that they received was always worth the price of admission. Whenever trouble was brewing the would-be antagonists usually felt quite secure when facing only Danny, wrongly assuming his wiry build was of little threat. The looks on their faces when Clay entered the fray were priceless. Danny pressed a button on his cell, and as soon as Clay answered left the call open, so he could hear everything said inside the bar.

Danny entered the building and walked to the bar. He returned the stares he received with a friendly nod. As he perched on a bar stool he took in the details of the room in one practised sweep. One barman, seven patrons: one table of four and another of three, all male. The men looked to range in age from early twenties to mid-forties; all had the look.

The bar was little more than a rectangular cinder-block enclosure with a stained wooden floor. A single ceiling fan turned in lazy circles but failed to provide any hint of a breeze. Like everything else in the bar, it was close to giving up the ghost.

Danny held up a finger to the barman. “Una cerveza, por favor.”

The barman scrutinised his unexpected customer for a few seconds then looked to the table of three. Danny watched one of the men tilt his chin in a vaguely dismissive gesture. Only then did the barman reach under the bar and produce a bottle. He removed the cap with a practised flick of the wrist, then he set the stubby bottle of Negra Modelo down in front of Danny.

“Gracias.” Danny took a long pull on the brew. As he took a second sip he glanced again at the mirror behind the bar. One of the three men stood up.

The man was dressed in jeans and dirty sneakers with a tight-fitting vest that had maybe been white, once upon a time. He carried no obvious weapons; no knife on his belt, no pistol on his hip or tucked in his waistband. He spoke in heavily accented English. “You’re a long way from the tourista trail. You lost?”

Danny turned to face the man.