I think these boys will be bigger fish than the Red Cow brigade.”

The scars on Clay’s face crinkled as he grimaced. “I could just ram this Jeep through the wall and then we could speak to whoever is left standing.”

Danny knew Clay was only half joking. He’d done the very same thing with an earthmover a while back, wrecking a Florida Keys mansion in the process. “Let’s give diplomacy a shot. It’s worth a try before we explore… other options.”

Danny looked around what passed for the parking lot. He counted six vehicles. Four pickup trucks and two battered sedans. Three of the trucks were less than ten years old and looked to be in good condition. That said a lot. Probably meant they were never used as utility vehicles. In contrast, the rear of the fourth truck’s tailgate was down and twenty or so fence posts and a loose coil of chicken wire were arranged neatly in the bed. All that remained of one tail light was a rusting hole and a protruding wire. Behind the farm truck stood two battered motorcycles. Both looked as if they had been assembled from junkyard spares.

The bar was twice the size of the Red Cow. A fading layer of whitewash coloured the cinder-block exterior. Above the door, the remains of a single bulb hung below a rusting shade. Blurred shapes moved behind the grimy window.

“Phones on.” Danny gave a single nod then left the Jeep. The late-afternoon heat hit him like a slap. Taking a long breath in through his nose, he held it for a four-count then exhaled slowly through his mouth. He stepped inside.

The interior of the bar was bigger and better than the Red Cow. The walls were decorated with a wide assortment of motor memorabilia. Number plates from different countries were hung like pictures at various points on the walls. US, Mexican, British and even a few Japanese plates were displayed. In between the plates stood several recognisable decals. Chrysler, Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Daimler and Fiat on one side, with Suzuki, Triumph, Honda, Kawasaki and Harley-Davidson behind the bar.

The steady bass line filled the room. The rock music was modern, and Danny found himself nodding along to the frenetic rhythm of guitar and drums. Ignoring the undisguised looks of hostility from the dozen or so men, he moved to a free stool at the bar.

The barman stared back at Danny impassively, his pockmarked face giving nothing away.

“Una Modelo cerveza, por favor,” said Danny.

After long seconds of consideration, the barman replied in English. “No Modelo here. We got Sol, Dos Equis or Tecate.”

“I’ll take a Tecate then, please.”

“You want a glass?”

“Nah, the bottle’s fine.”

Danny had barely taken the first gulp of the pale lager when three men surrounded him. The man at Danny’s right shoulder poked him with a stiffened finger.

“No, I’m not lost, and no, I’m not a tourista,” said Danny as he turned to face them.

The man who had jabbed Danny stood silent for a moment, his mouth open as his opening gambit was stolen.

Danny fixed the man in the centre of the trio with a steady gaze, unblinking.