David stepped out of the taxi at the Hotel Simón Bolívar in Maracaibo, the humid air sticking to his skin like a second layer. The driver grunted something in Spanish as he handed back change, then drove off into the bustling evening traffic. David slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder and paused on the sidewalk, eyes scanning the street. Cars honked, pedestrians hurried past with shopping bags, vendors shouted from street carts selling arepas and fresh juice. Nothing seemed off, but that feeling crawled up his spine: the one he’d honed in Iran, the one that said eyes were on him. He shook it off as paranoia, but he looked one more time before walking into the lobby.
The check-in desk was manned by a young clerk with a tired smile. “Bienvenido, señor. Reservation?”
“John Reyes,” David
