The morning was less eventful—barely.  Rickards froze in his tracks the moment he opened his hotel room door.  Below, positioned behind some of the parked cars, was a white Bolivian police truck.  It stood unattended, with a wide green stripe traveling the length of the vehicle over the hood and cab and running beneath a set of red and blue flashing lights.   Spanning both doors in giant green letters read POLICIA BOLIVIANA.

Rickards remained still, listening.  Hearing nothing, he eased slightly forward and peered along the concrete walkway.  First left, then right.

Moments later, Angela’s door opened next to his, and he watched her discover the vehicle with wide eyes.  She slowly turned toward Rickards.

“What do we do?” she mouthed.

Rickards’ response was also silent.  One slow word.  “Calm.”

Cautiously, he advanced and peered down over the white painted railing to find nothing.  No people and no movement.

He turned back and began to speak when Townsend’s door suddenly opened loudly before the man exited with a square metal sealed container.

“Not an espresso machine,” he joked, “but almost as good.”

“Shh!” Rickards ordered.

The older man looked around.  “What’s going on?”

Rickards placed a finger over his mouth and made a sign with his free hand to stop.  When he pointed to the police vehicle, Townsend raised both eyebrows.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“No idea.”

“They can’t be here for us,” Angela said in a hushed voice.  “We haven’t done anything.”

Rickards nodded and looked back down.

It was true.  They hadn’t done anything.  Not that they knew of.  Were the police there for them or someone else?

He turned and eased his door closed behind him, quietly shutting it.  Then he motioned for the others to do the same.  As they did, he caught a sound of noise downstairs near the office.

Rickards’ years of investigation training kicked in.

The truck had a double cab but still looked too small to take all three away in it.  If the officers were indeed here for them, maybe it was only for questioning.  To ask why they’d come back, or worse, where they were headed.

Calmly, he pointed to the far end of the walkway, ushering them toward a distant, second set of stairs.  “That way.  Quietly.”

He eased forward and softly hefted Townsend’s case with his left hand, following until the three reached the end and started down the concrete stairway.

They reached their car without seeing anyone and opened the doors, including the rear doors, where Rickards slid the case onto the back seat next to Townsend.  He then straightened and turned around, ensuring they could squeeze out past the police truck.