Breaking the Line

“Maybe we should just go straight to the airport,” I said.

“This'll just take a couple of minutes,” Scott said.  “These guys don't know where we're staying, anyways.”

“I don't know.  Maybe they do.  Our reservation for the fishing charter had our hotel listed on it  And the shooter got aboard the boat.”

Scott thought for a moment, then shook his head.  “That's a long shot.  Besides, we're almost there.  No way could they get here before we're packed and gone.”

“Scott,” I said after a moment, “I'm not risking my life over a couple pair of khakis and a toothbrush.”  I held a small sheaf of bills over the front seat and said to the driver, “Por favor, halta aqui.”

The taxi slowed to a stop, about a hundred yards short of the drive leading up to our hotel complex.  I could see Scott wrestling with himself internally, but pride won out over caution.  “Meet you at the airport.  Loser buys.”

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