I was on the way back from my long delayed bathroom break when I saw the round-headed man standing next to the sand sculpture, pretending to read some fliers while he cast furtive looks around. He was older than he’d looked in the dark, probably in his late forties or early fifties, and wearing a western-cut polyester suit that highlighted his figure flaws, particularly the place where stomach spill hid his belt. His pointed feet were shoved into cowboy boots and turned out, remarkably like the cartoon character I’d sketched him as. Only he wasn’t a cartoon.
He was a killer.
And he was looking for me.
He looked up and found me. He started toward me when something low and gray, hit him dead center. Cowboy, and the spy protecting me, sprawled into the sand sculpture. Grappling awkwardly,
