Morning comes down hard on the Alamo. Tony is up before me. When I flick on the lamp, I see him standing in the middle of the cabin floor, wiping his face with a washcloth. His arms and chest are bare, muscular. He offers me a smile.
“Good morning, babe,” he says. “Time to get moving. Gus will be expecting us in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” I say, rubbing the life back into my face. “I hope Gus has coffee.”
Tony laughs. “There will be something to eat and drink at the picnic tables. Now, let’s get moving.”
Less than ten minutes later, we’re standing at the same picnic table where we feasted on roast pork and too many cans of beer the night before. A simple breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and fresh baked bread are laid out on a platter on the table. There’s also four, sound-suppresse
