The air was thick, still, and hot. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss lined the dirt road to the large white house. His years of searching had led him here.
As he approached the porch he saw a man sitting at a table, condensation dripping down the sides of his drink. A maid stood behind him, an air of uncomfortable familiarity between the two.
Coming to the porch, he gathered his resolve. Reveal his entire hand now, or work his way into the man's confidence first?
"Hans Westergard?"
The man looked up. "You know my name. Why are you here?"