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THE BEACH, ABOUT fifteen miles from La Ceiba, Honduras, was perfect: low-key but with a decent restaurant and bar close by. The waters of the Caribbean barely made a sound as the tiny waves rolled onto the white sand.

Kevin Doyle stretched his whole body as he lay on the lounger under an oversized umbrella. When he moved a certain way, he felt a twinge of pain in his left side. Under his lightweight shirt, Doyle still wore bandages to cover the wounds of the bullet that had entered the side of his abdomen and exited through his back. A second, superficial hole sat near his belly button. The bullet must have clipped part of the Kevlar and fallen out as he was running away from the restaurant. He also still had a giant bruise from the bullet that had been stopped by the Kevlar in the shirt Bennett had given him.

His friend Amir had said Doyle was lucky the more damaging bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs. Amir had been the one to provide Doyle with first aid the night his cousin shot him. Then the shady Israeli had helped Doyle get out of the city safely.

Doyle had taken a circuitous route to Honduras. He decided, while he was here, to treat it like an extended vacation. He had rented a room through Airbnb under the name Douglas Mauser. So far, he’d spent most mornings sitting in the same lounger, gazing out at the beautiful water.

Doyle had no interest in resuming his former profession. He had money stashed all over the world. And he was shocked at how cheaply he could live well here.

He smiled at the pretty waitress from the little hotel bar. She knew to bring him a Coke Zero every hour or so.

She said in broken English, “You like a rum runner?”

Doyle smiled and shook his head. He didn’t think he needed to tell her that he couldn’t drink alcohol for a few more weeks because the antibiotics and pain pills probably wouldn’t mix well with rum.

She winked at him, and he couldn’t help but watch her walk across the sand to the small tiki bar.

He had a wild thought as he watched her walk away. Could she be a better Tammy? As long as she didn’t want him to murder anybody. He’d have to tell her he didn’t do that sort of thing. Anymore.