They're not here. They're not in Puerto Peñasco.
Even as Cary bought a beer and a fish taco for yet another supposed informant in yet another ramshackle seaside bar, he had a terrible feeling in his heart. He was starting to think he'd come to the wrong town, and Glo and Late were forever out of reach.
"Don't worry, Beacon," El Yucatango had told him between informants sixteen and seventeen. "This is a tourist town. New faces have a way of blurring together.
"But we're super-heroes. We'll find them."
Cary wanted to believe him, but his hope was running out faster than the money in the pocket of his bluejeans. As the latest informant--number twenty-seven--drank his beer and ate his fish taco and shook his head again and again, Cary was ready to give up for the night. Maybe for go
