Assumed Identity

8

“Who the fuck are you?” the first twin demanded, jabbing Buchanan’s chest.

“Hey, what are you-?” Buchanan tried to object.

“We’re too close to the windows of the restaurant. Someone inside will see,” the second twin cautioned his brother. “We need to go down to the beach.”

“Yes,” the first twin said. “The beach. The fucking beach.”

“Todavia no. Not yet,” the bodyguard warned. He unhooked a hand-held metal detector from his belt and quickly but thoroughly scanned it over Buchanan.

The metal detector beeped three times.

“His belt buckle. His keys. A pen,” the bodyguard said, not needing to explain that the buckle might conceal a knife, that the keys and pen could be used as weapons.

“Take off your belt,” the first twin ordered Buchanan. “Drop your keys and the pen on the ground.”

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand,” Buchanan insisted.

The second twin showed his pistol, a 9-mm Browning. “Do what you’re told.”

The bodyguard jabbed his Beretta into Buchanan’s left kidney. “Rapido. Ahora. Now.”

Buchanan complied, removing his belt, dropping it along with his keys and his pen.

The first twin snatched them up.

The second twin shoved Buchanan away from the restaurant toward the gardens.

The bodyguard kept the Beretta low, inconspicuous, and followed.