“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!”