DROP NINE
Back at his workshop, Hector had a nagging thought. He read the last text Diego had sent and read it out loud to Armadillo.
“Any ideas? No?”
He put down his tools and went at the front. He stood at the place Diego was the last time he saw him. The time he turned his back on him. He looked around.
The cupboard at the right, close to the exit.
He opened it.
The flash drive was there. Clean. Precious.
That sly bastard. He had turned his back, what, five seconds? Ten, at most?
Hector gripped it tight and then went to visit another artisan he knew of.
