31
I.O.U
Of all the sounds you don’t expect to hear in one of the fiercest places on Earth, it’s the tinkle of a bicycle bell. Yet that’s exactly what I heard. I looked up and saw a girl on an old fashioned bike. Patchy gold paint with a basket on the front, rolling in fast.
“Look out!” she said, the tyres of her bike spinning by me with only a few inches to spare.
“Watch it!” Diaz shouted.
Too late. The girl wobbled into him on the bike, brakes creaking and the front tyre riding up over the toe of Diaz’s boot. I pushed up off my hands, on to my feet. Diaz shoved bike and girl away angrily, calling her all the names under the Mexican sun as she apologised profusely. I disarmed Diaz with ease and struck him across the face with the butt of his own gun; knocking him to the dirt.
I paus
