I see nothing and no one unusual. The sunny square ringed with vendors is thronged with people shopping and chatting, eating and smoking, sipping coffee in the shade of colorful umbrellas. Mariachi music plays on a tinny radio. Laughing children chase each other over the cobblestones. The smell of spiced roasting meat and salt water wafts through the air.
Everything looks normal, but still it’s there, the ancient alarm bell, ringing in my head and stomach, warning me of a predator.
I curse my lack of a gun, but I’m not completely unarmed. I’ve been carrying a stiletto with me everywhere I go, a rusted specimen I discovered shoved into the back of a kitchen drawer at my apartment. I cleaned and oiled it, sharpening its blade until it could slice through a piece of paper like butter.
I kn
