Sergio smiled with contempt.
“I don’t care if you’re waiting for the king. He’s leaving now or he’s coming with me handcuffed.
Don Manuel, sixty-two, breathed slowly.
He wore a grey vest, simple dress pants and well-lurked black shoes. It looked like any retiree who had gone out for a walk in the Parque de la Ribera, in San Miguel del Río.
That’s what Sergio saw.
A dark man.
Major.
Easy.
Sitting on an ancient bench where a phrase carved for decades was still being read:
“Only residents.”
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