“You have two hours to gather your things

and  leave our country. I’ll send an officer to your hotel to

escort you to the airport. Don’t ever come back,

comprenden, gringos?” the police sergeant ordered.

“Si, comprendamos, capi,” Gage hastily responded

in agreement. He had a butterfly bandage over his left

eye and purple bruises under both. He draped Ethan’s

arm over his shoulder and started down the short flight

of steps. “Jesus, Ethan, I don’t know why I keep

working with you. You look like shit, by the way.”

Ethan winced with every step but said nothing. He

glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant still scowling

at them from the top of the steps.

“Now what do we do?” Gage asked. “They

smashed my camera, so we got no video of those

fuckers trawling in a protected reserve. They offloaded

before we got back to port, so we got no proof of their

catch. We ain’t got squat, boss. Hell, we got less than

squat. You got broke ribs. My nose probably is as

well.” Gage cringed, touching the bridge of his nose.

“Messed up my pretty face, goddammit. Our sponsor

fired us, man! We used all our money to get out of jail.

We’re fucked, man, just plain fucked.”

Ethan kept silent while they shuffled on, a dull pain

punctuating his every step.

“You got nuthin to say?” Gage said. “Nuthin at

all?” Ethan looked over his shoulder again at the

sergeant. Figuring they’d gone far enough, he lifted his

hand to his mouth and spat something into it. Turning

toward Gage, he smiled and winked his right eye—the

one not swollen shut.

“The memory stick.” Gage exclaimed. “How did

You…? You cagey son of a bitch!”