“Oh, yeah?” He let his tone go light as she led him towards a cluster of food stalls, their colorful canvas awnings snapping in the faint breeze that rolled in off the water. “Thought you said you wanted to try that place back there?”
“I changed my mind,” she shot back, already dragging him forward, her sandals slapping cheerfully against the packed dirt. “This smells better, and it has one huge advantage.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s right here, right now.” She looked at him with her dazzling smile. “Feed me?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, letting himself be pulled, letting her anchor him to the performance of being a normal couple even as his gaze continued its steady, methodical sweep of everything around them.
God, I love her.
He also loved that she could play the part so well. Loved that even now, walking into something that could go sideways fast, she still reached for the ordinary—for food and laughter and the simple, stubborn insistence on being alive rather than merely surviving. It was the thing about her that had broken him open the first time and never quite let him close back up.
The food stalls, also known asfondas, clustered together in a loose horseshoe, the smell of them hitting him in a warm, complicated wave—grilled meat and char and cumin and something sweet, sugarcane maybe, caramelising somewhere nearby. The heat radiating off the grills added another layer to the already punishing afternoon, shimmering visibly in the air above the coals. A woman behind the nearest stall, small and round-faced with silver threaded through her dark braid, called out to them in cheerful Spanish and gestured at the skewers lined up along the grill like soldiers.
But as they approached, Beatle's focus sharpened to a point.
Two men stood just beyond the vendor, shoulders angled inward, voices pitched below the ambient noise of the market. He took in their ordinary clothes—too clean and deliberate, too layered for the heat—and the bulge of the concealed weapons ontheir hips. They stood with the stillness that men held when they were waiting for something. They weren't here for the food.
Threat level: moderate. Monitoring.
His grip on her hand tightened, just a fraction, with two quick pulses—a private language, a signal she knew without translation.
“Stay close,” he murmured under his breath, the smile never leaving his face, his eyes never leaving the two men beyond the stall.
Her fingers squeezed back. “I always do.”
I know, he thought.Perhaps too close. That's what scares me.He wondered again, why he had thought this was a good idea.
They ordered—Casey with animated enthusiasm, pointing at things and asking questions in halting Spanish that made the silver-haired vendor laugh—and carried their food to a nearby table, a rough-hewn wooden thing with a bench on each side. The food was good. He barely tasted it.
He was watching the approach before most men would have registered movement at all.
A tall, broad-shouldered, smiling blonde man cut through the market crowd. He strolled with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once in his life needed to wonder if he was the most dangerous person in a given place. Dressed in khakis and a dri-fit polo the color of dried blood, he moved with the economy of a man whose body was a tool he kept in excellent condition—not showy, not aggressive, just profoundly, quietly capable. Approaching six-foot-three, well over two hundred pounds of lean, functional muscle that had been put to use in ways that had nothing to do with a gym.
The man’s piercing blue eyes met Beatle's gaze across the crowded market lane. His smile widened, and he nodded.
Then he strode towards Beatle and Casey.
Unknown. Unvetted. Armed—left hip, compact frame, print visible under the polo. Trained—look at the way he moves through a crowd. Threat level: unknown.
“Casey,” Beatle’s voice dropped to the register she knew to take seriously. “I don't recognize this man. Don't run unless I give the signal.”
He heard her breath quicken beside him and felt the slight shift in her weight. He knew she would be watching his hands. A simple nod and wave of his fingers and she would bolt. That had been the one thing he had forced her to agree on before they had boarded that flight. “Okay. Want me to throw the food at his face?”
He couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out. “No, waste of good food.”
The man reached their table and settled onto the opposite bench with the ease of someone joining old friends, the wooden seat groaning under his weight. Up close, the blue eyes were sharp and assessing but not unkind—the eyes of someone who made decisions quickly and lived with them.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lennon,” he greeted them, his voice seemingly genuine and welcoming. “My sincere apologies for being late. I trust that you two have been able to enjoy yourselves?” His cadence carried the warm and casual familiarity of someone who’d been their acquaintance for years. As if they'd all planned to meet there, at that stall in the market. As if this were nothing more than a lunch appointment.
Beatle didn’t allow himself to show it, but he was unsettled that the big man called them by their last name. Choosing to address them that way was a scare tactic, he knew. Hell, he’d used that one himself in the past.Interesting play. Let’s see where this goes.
“No worries,” Beatle said. “We already started eating. I hope you don’t mind.” He shifted his weight on the bench—a minoradjustment, casual to any observer—that brought his hand a few critical inches closer to the weapon at his back.
The man laughed and waved dismissively, his large hand cutting the air. “Oh, please! Enjoy yourselves. The food here isamazing.” He paused and, with a lowered voice, said, “The name's Gil, by the way.” He extended his hand across the table with the relaxed expectation of someone who had never been refused.
Beatle took it. The handshake was brief and firm, communicating exactly what two men of a certain background always communicated in that specific exchange.I know what you are. You know what I am. Let's not pretend otherwise.