I considered making up a story about how I lost all the paperwork, but my story would be easy enough to dispute. And I didn’t feel like spending another two hours in this room while they tried to pull up my fake hotel reservations and had someone at the US Embassy check their files for a travel visa application that didn’t exist.

“You have my money,” I said matter-of-factly. “Can’t you just take it and let me in?”

A look of disgust flashed across the Suit’s face. “Yes, I bet you expect the corrupt Bolivian to take your American dollars, and everything will be fine.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He shook his head. “Your drug money means nothing to me.”

“It’s not drug money.” Technically, it was bribery money—at least some of it—which didn’t sound much better. I was tempted to tell him the real story: that my ex-girlfriend had been abducted, and I was here to rescue her. Surely this would pull at his heartstrings. But before I could continue, he waved in two men. Both men were policía.

The officers made me stand up and put my hands behind my back. They clicked handcuffs around my wrists.

Not again.

“Alto.”

I turned around.

A fifth person had entered the room. He too was in uniform. But his was military. He had a thick black mustache and hard-parted black hair. He spoke a few words to the Suit, and after a sigh and nod, the Suit instructed the police officers to remove my cuffs. The Suit then said, “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Señor Prescott. Please enjoy your stay in our country.”

It was as painful to watch the Suit deliver the words as it must have been for him to deliver them.

Military Mustache led me out of the room to where another man in uniform, who saluted MM, was holding both my pack and the duffel.

“Again, sorry for the misunderstanding,” MM said, then stuck out his hand. I shook it, and just as quickly, he turned to leave.

The officer handed me my teal pack and the duffel—which, thankfully, still had a nice heft to it—then waved for me to follow him. I trailed him through the airport and outside to where a line of taxis were waiting. The officer walked to a red Honda, opened the door, and ushered me inside. He gave a curt nod, then closed the door. The taxi—or at least, what I hoped was a taxi—sped away from the busy pickup area and merged onto a road that the signage indicated led to La Paz.

The driver was Bolivian with dark hair and sunglasses. In the rearview mirror, I noticed a few silver-capped teeth.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, cradling the duffel to my chest.

He nodded and said, “Sí, sí, sí.”