He leaped up from the bench without asking for details. A pickup truck had pulled in front of the taco stand while they’d been talking, blocking the motorcycle from view. As Alex hurtled around the side of it he saw a stocky guy with black hair crouched beside the Shadow, untying the tent. On the ground beside him sat a bulging knapsack, and both sleeping bags.

“What the hell are you doing?” shouted Alex in Spanish. “Get away from my bike!”

Leaving the camping stuff, the guy grabbed the knapsack and ran, his heels kicking up dust. The jimmied-open storage compartment gaped emptily. Alex swore and took off after him, pounding across the dry soil. The guy was as fast as he was, though, weaving around dumpsters and abandoned cars like a rabbit and finally veering off to the right, scrambling over a high concrete wall. Alex started to follow but stopped, acutely aware that he’d left Willow by herself, when anyone from the Church might stop by the stand and see her. Still cursing the thief, he turned and jogged back to the bike. Jesus, how was that for luck? They’d lost their stuff twice in one week now.

Willow was waiting beside the Shadow looking anxious; the taco stand woman stood beside her, chattering in worried Spanish that Alex knew Willow didn’t understand. “He stole your things!” the woman cried as Alex approached. “I’m so sorry – I didn’t see him until you shouted. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, but thank you, Señora,” replied Alex. If they’d been in America, he knew she’d have probably already called the police. Thankfully, running to law enforcement didn’t usually occur to people here – which was good, since the Mexican police were just as much in the angels’ pockets as back home.

Willow’s face was tight with distress as the woman returned to her stand. “God, I’m sorry – I knew there was something! I was focusing so strongly on the Church of Angels, but I could tell it wasn’t that, and I guess I sort of disregarded it—”

“Hey, come on, it’s not your fault,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. He squatted beside the bike, shaking his head as he examined the forced-open lock. The thief must have worked fast; he obviously knew what he was doing.

“Well, at least he didn’t get much,” he said as he stood up. “And I’ve still got my wallet. We can always buy more clothes; the marketplaces in Mexico City are really cheap.”