He took a room on the second floor. He ruffled the bed, cracked a few drawers, tested the shower—leaving the shower curtain pulled—and wet a towel. Satisfied that the room looked used, he slipped into the hall. The back stairs led into the lobby below, but an old wooden fire escape led into an alley behind the hotel. Casius climbed through the fire escape, dropped into the alley, and made his way down the dark passage. No sign of the agent.

He walked through alleys to a small shop on the south side of the city. The gray cinder blocks splashed with dirty white paint looked unchanged from his last visit to this alley. Casius stepped up to the shop’s back entry door, found it unlocked, and stepped into Samuel Bonila’s gun shop.

He paused in the entryway, letting his eyesight adjust to the dim light.

“María?” a gruff voice called.

Casius stepped into the lighted shop and eyed Samuel evenly. The man blinked and returned the gaze.

“What are you doing?” Samuel demanded. “We do have a front door for customers. And we are closed.”

“You are Samuel Bonila?” Casius asked, knowing the answer.

The man hesitated.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Casius assured him.

“Yes, that is my name. And who are you?”

“My father was known to you, Mr. Bonila. A foreigner who knew how to shoot. Perhaps you remember him?”

“A foreigner who—”

Samuel suddenly stopped and stared at Casius, searching. “You are . . . ?”

“Yes.”

The storekeeper blinked and took a step forward. “But I can’t see the resemblance. You’ve changed. You’re nothing like the boy I remember.”

“Time changes some people. I need you to keep my coming here to yourself, Mr. Bonila. And I need to purchase a few knives.”

“Yes, of course.” He glanced to the door. “You have my full confidence.” He smiled, suddenly pleased. “And you will be needing a gun? I have some very fine imports.”

“I’m sure you do. But not this time. I need two knives.”

“Yes, yes.” He took one more long look at Casius and then hurried to a case behind him.

Casius left the shop five minutes later with Samuel mumbling behind him. Ten minutes later he checked into a cockroach-infested joint that had the gall to call itself a hotel and took a room on the third floor. He shed the money belts, withdrew five thousand dollars, and hid the rest in the ceiling above the bathroom mirror. It had been over twenty-four hours since his last sleep. Exhausted, he fell onto the bed and slept.