The crest of the hill emitted shimmering waves of heat, flickering and obscuring a figure. The dark silhouette against the blue haze of the morning sky, not quite in focus yet, resembled someone familiar. The waves of heat depleted the closer he came into view. A Cordebés hat was clear as he spun around — Zorro? A black cowl mask: it was El Zorro. The cunning fox was free, but why was he here on the Costa Blanca?
Zorro's long black cape trailed, flouncing behind him. He sprinted zigzagging in an exhaustive pursuit. Drawing his flashing steel rapier, leapt and spiked a piece of paper— stopped—lifted the note to admire it, and smiled self-congratulatory.
A scruffy grey donkey heaped with baskets of orange nísperos eyed him, chewing from a nosebag like he didn't care. His owner, a chubby, ragged farmer, flipped a pot to his crease-crazed face, pouring without touching his gurning lips. He smacked the rump of his donkey to elicit movement, multi-tasking.
A swoosh of wind fluttered and lifted the spiked paper from Zorro's sword, swishing and rolling in the breeze.
"Bastardo!" Zorro rasped.
He resumed the chase with more teeth-gritted venom. The paper hit and tumbled along the side of the torque body of his shiny, black and rigid stallion. The horse, made from fibreglass, was bolted atop his tired 1969 Volkswagen bus, two-tone creams, rusty and pitted with holes. The van was parked in a residential car park and the horse a prop to his unusual job.
He rushed the horse in a flourish of upward stabbing motions and missed skewering the paper by inches. The paper, a thousand peseta note, swirled off in the wind avoiding capture.
Inside this Zorro'd up van, he lifted his cape, sinking into the seat, flustered from the exertion. Flipped up the black mask onto his sweaty forehead, despondent, revealing a bruised black eye. He sighed, closed his blue eyes as his shoulders sank back deflated.
He slouched into his ripped seat, wiped the sweat from his blinking eyes and turned the key. The tired engine flushed, that familiar water-cooled VW sound, ticked over and then died. He sat back, emulating the engine, fed-up.
Under that unusual work attire, a handsome, albeit rugged man, El Zorro ‒ Danny, when not at work, studied the rings of blue and yellow around his right eye in the mirror. Suddenly something flashed to his left catching his other eye. He oscillated his head, searching for the source and instantly recognising the person he was there to shame into paying her debt.
A breast heavy, rotund woman, the wrong side of fifty, but being Mediterranean could be a lot older, wearing a house coat and slippers, clutching a brown crusty loaf and pinch purse.
The woman peered over the bonnet of a blue people carrier from a crouching position. Her crow's feet squinted, desperation in her dark, Moorish eyes. Breathing became heavy, progressing into a pant. She abruptly stopped; her breath caught in her throat. She stole another glance at her pursuer and flinched.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zorros-Last-Stand-Mark-Shearman-ebook/dp/B07879KQGJ
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