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Bougainvillea was draped like a necklace along the railing where she stood overlooking an al fresco dining space that reminded her of her childhood home in Southern California.
    Soon the music in the cantina below would fill the cooler evening air and she would wander among the patrons in search of her first mark. The Well was his favorite watering hole and he socialized there most nights.
    Paulo Fernandez was forty-nine, though he looked sixty. Goats and chickens were his livelihood in Pozos. To his neighbors and customers he was the old man who’d turned the church ruins on the edge of town into goat and chicken pens. The same old man whose dried meat shop in the main plaza kept his patrons coming back. Fernandez’s outwardly one-dimensional character ran far deeper than anyone recognized. Based on Casey’s research she would wager his ancestors had been traitors in the Mexican Revolution at the beginning of the twentieth century and not much had changed through the generations since. Fernandez played snitch for the federales or whoever else paid the largest sum of pesos. He hadn’t inherited the old mining hacienda he called home as most believed. His lucrative little side job had paid for the property and the renovations.
    Casey knew and understood his type. Ruthlessness camouflaged by charm. Relentlessness hidden by humility. She could handle Fernandez with both eyes shut. With a quick check of her cell, which had succumbed to poor service but still maintained the time, she headed down to the lobby to meet her resource. She had arrived as prepared as legally possible but some necessities wouldn’t pass airport screening. For those essentials she required a local resource. Central Mexico hadn’t been among her assignments thus far in her CIA career but a quick call to a colleague had provided a name and number for the best man in the region.
    Casey strolled across the cobblestone courtyard, admiring the beautifully aged architecture adorned by the late season’s blooms until she spotted the red silk scarf that tagged her contact. In this case the best man in the region was a woman. Tall, elegant and with a lush mane of coal-black hair cascading down her back, Eva Sanchez sat at a table sipping a tall glass of what appeared to be water with a lemon wedge perched on the rim. A large colorful and clearly expensive bag sat at her feet. The stilettos and flowing white skirt with matching ballerina blouse gave her the look of a chic contessa. The red scarf offered an eye-catching pop of color that few could ignore. Their gazes locked and Casey crossed to her table.
    “Ms. Manning, you’re far younger than I expected.” Eva smiled, gesturing to the chair opposite her and then to her glass. “Would you like a drink? I recommend the sparkling water. It’s immensely refreshing and it is by far the safest of the things you will encounter while visiting our lovely country.”
    “I’m good, thanks.” Casey settled into the chair. “You had no problems filling my order?” There were times when small talk served a purpose but this was not one of those times. Casey wasn’t here to make friends. She was extraordinarily gifted at setting aside her emotions. Her last boyfriend had reveled in pointing out what he called a deep-seated personality flaw.
    “I have everything you need.” Sanchez’s expression shifted to one of business. “Two handguns. One Beretta 9mm and one Ruger .22 caliber. A holster for the latter. One box of rounds for each. One four-inch switchblade.”
    “You received my cash transfer?” Payment up front—that was the deal. No exceptions.
    “Of course.” Sanchez flashed another of those practiced smiles that fell short of her eyes. “Otherwise I would not be here.” She drew a small red clutch purse from the larger bag at her feet and placed cash on the table for her tab. “All is as it should be.”
    “Excellent.”
    Sanchez openly studied Casey for a moment. “Be very careful, Ms.