He could only hope she’d show.
CHAPTER 11CONCHO’S
Noon, a blistery hot Saturday with sweat pouring off his face.
A clever time, Pablo had to admit. Lunch hour with American bargain hunters to blend in, in Tijuana, if she were coming.
He wore a blue colored baseball cap and clutched a newspaper, as she had instructed. He tossed it onto the table at McDonald’s on the American side and settled into a booth that faced the trolley station, again as instructed. All the ID tags easier for her to spot him.
A trolley jerked to a stop. In the press of women leaving and boarding, he didn’t see any with a luxurious mass of blonde hair. He had arrived early anyway, he told himself, trying to ease his anxiety and glanced at a front page headline. "PARIS REELS UNDER TERRORIST ATTACK. OTHER CAPITALS
