What did happen was that one of the officials yanked the duffel bag from my hand and unzipped it, revealing two decades’ worth of his salary.

The two officials began barking in Spanish, and Andy translated, “They’re going to detain you.”

From Midnight Express, I knew this was the first chip to fall which would ultimately end with me falling in love with a man in a third world prison.

“Do something!” I said to Roth.

Roth threw up his hands in defeat. He’d already gotten his check, what did he care?

More Spanish was barked, and Andy translated, “If you don’t go with them now, they’re detaining all of us.”

I leaned my head back and took a deep breath. In all honesty, it wasn’t a third world prison that scared me—yes, I’m sure their prisons sucked, but I’m sure I would survive—no, I was terrified about Gina’s fate.

Regardless of whether they sent me back to the United States or they sent me to prison—who knows what laws of theirs I’d broken by bringing in a bunch of cash—by the time it was all sorted, Gina’s trail would be long cold.

I glanced over my shoulder at the rest of the expedition team. They looked on with curiosity, wondering just who this ruggedly handsome mystery passenger they had picked up really was. I thought about running back onto the plane, where the pilot still was, and telling him to take off. I could get him to land in a field somewhere or take me to Chile. Of course, I wouldn’t have my passport or any money with me, and I would probably be worse off than I was now.

“Fine,” I said, resigned. “I’ll go with them.”

≈

I was in a small gray-walled room not far from the traditional customs counter. The two men had escorted me there from the tarmac, pushed me down into one of two chairs surrounding a table, and left. There were scuff marks on the table, as well names, Spanish phrases, and drawings—some crude, some not—carved into it. That had been twenty minutes ago.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and then the door opened. Two men entered. One of the officials from before, plus a man in a suit.

“Mr. Prescott?” the Suit said in slightly accented English. He was older, maybe in his sixties, his Latin features softened by time.

“Yep.”

He sat across from me.

“It would appear there is a problem with your entry papers. We do not have any for you.”