He stepped back, and back, and back, and back, with that same pleasant face he'd learned to wear for his captors in Cuba. Ten paces out, he turned and picked up his pace.

He got to his room down the hall, put the key in, and went still when the key didn't turn.

The door was unlocked, and his things had been ransacked. His face fell, but he went in, didn't bother closing the door behind him, and stepped back out with fishing gear in hand.

Oh well. He fished better at night anyway.