The last time he'd blown off the warning, he'd ended up gut-shot and on life support in a San Salvador hospital. So when he felt that first infinitesimal tickle of unease skitter along the back of his neck, he shot straight to attention. Nothing looked out of sync inside the gently rocking train as it methodically ate up the miles across the Peruvian Andes in the middle of a very quiet June night. Still, his heart had kicked up like a marathon runner on his last leg so from his seat in the middle of the dimly lit passenger car, he methodically scanned for signs of trouble. He'd be damned if he could see a threat. In fact, everything looked status quo: A bunch of tired people making the best of the overnight ride. Everything smelled status quo, too: the dyed, damp wool of the Quechua farmers' ponchos, stale tobacco smoke, the faint aroma of llama dung dried on the bottom of someone's shoe and the moldy, musty scent that always seemed to permeate enclosed spaces in the Andes.
