An Acceptable Sacrifice

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THEY’D MET LAST NIGHT for the first time and now, mid-morning, they were finally starting to let go a bit, to relax, to trust each other. Almost to trust each other.

Such is the way it works when you’re partnered with a stranger on a mission to kill.

“Is it always this hot?” P.Z. Evans asked, squinting painfully against the fierce glare. The dense lenses of his Ray-Bans were useless.

“No.”

“Thank God.”

“Usually is hotter,” Alejo Díaz replied, his English enriched by a luscious accent.

“You’re shitting me.”

The month was May and the temperature was around 97. They were in Zaragoza Plaza, the picturesque square dominated by a statue of two stern men Evans had learned were generals. A cathedral, too.

And then there was the sun… like burning gasoline.

Evans had flown to Hermosillo from outside D.C., where he lived when he wasn’t on the road. In the nation’s capital-the nation to the north, that is-the temperature had been a pleasant 75.

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