Breaking the Line

I sighed.  “No, I'm not.  I don't have anything to do with the drug gangs.  I suppose I should just tell you and you can decide if you want to leave me at the side of the road or not.”

So I told her.  And she said nothing for a few minutes – minutes bringing me closer to the airport, I was aware enough to note.

“Los Allegres probably have someone watching for you at the terminal.  Here's what we do: we follow a shuttle van or a charter bus.  You get out at the same time it unloads and you mingle with the tourists.  They can't kill you in a crowd – you are the witness they are trying to eliminate; they don't want to create twenty more.  I hope.”

I cringed at 'I hope' but my reply was sincere: “Gracias, Teresa, gracias.  I am deeply, deeply in your debt.”

“I suppose it does more than repay fixing a flat tire,” she said, slowing and pulling to a stop along the shoulder.  “Now, if you don't mind taking off the license plates, I'm going to – how you say – disguise myself while we wait for a bus to come by.”


She did, in fact, look like a completely different person by the time a big air conditioned cruiser rumbled by full of sunburned tourists returning to the airport for flights home, their neatly packaged, time-managed vacations at an end.  I don't know how she did it; sunglasses, some alterations to her hair and makeup, and she was nearly unrecognizable.  Still looked good though.

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