Drake kept his gait smooth and casual as he walked along the street, even whistling a popular tune that anyone listening would recognize and dismiss. Just a normal Spanish man, out for a stroll before he retired to his home for an afternoon out of the heat.

The glance he sent upward took in the tall, narrow windows in the building. A warehouse, without question. But was it the warehouse? The one he’d been searching for this past fortnight? He couldn’t be sure until he looked inside.

That, though, was proving a challenge. The windows were too high up for him to see into from the street and too dusty to give him a clear view from the building across the way—he’d tried that yesterday.

He was running out of time. If he loitered around this neighborhood much longer, people would begin to notice him and wonder who he was, why he’d suddenly appeared. They’d start asking questions.

No one knew better than he that questions could lead to answers—and he didn’t much fancy anyone finding answers about him.

He had to get inside. There was no other option.

At the corner, he paused. A lorry was rattling by, giving him a good excuse not to cross the road. He leaned against the building instead. Into his pocket he reached for a slender cigar, a cutter, and a match. He didn’t much care for them, to be perfectly honest, but they did provide handy cover when he wanted to stand in one place for minutes on end and not look suspicious while doing it. He sliced off the end of the cigar, slid the cutter back into his pocket, and struck the match.

How could he verify the contents of the warehouse? He’d asked that question days ago and had made a list of the possibilities. He could look through the windows—failed. He could engage and weasel information out of a worker—attempted but not successful. He could try that tactic again. Go back to that dingy little bar and buy another glass of wine for the sweaty bloke he’d tried to strike up a conversation with last night. But the chap was more interested in his sangria than in talking and had only grunted his replies.

He could get inside. The trickiest but surest option. Drake drew on the cigar to get it to light, careful to keep his distaste from showing on his face. Abuelo loved these things, but for the life of him, Drake couldn’t determine why.

Once the cigar was smoldering, he leaned against the building as if it were there solely to hold him up on a lazy afternoon.