Page 63 of Maximum Bet

“We went to a business lunch before we had to fly out of San Juan, and we had too muchcerveza.”

My smile grows as Marco’s idea takes shape. “We can try to speak some rudimentary Spanish, too. Really sell the ‘we’re lost idiots’ game.”

Marco lifts a palm to high-five me. I laugh at his childish gesture but go ahead and give him the high five anyway.

“All right, come on.” I open the door and climb out, quickly morphing into character.

Marco joins me, slapping me on the back and letting out a bark of laughter. “That’s a good one,” he says with a wink.

He’s over the top and obnoxious, but aren’t all tourists?

He starts to turn toward the back of the buildings, but I grab his arm. “Where are you going, man?” I try to slur my speech just enough to sell the act, but not so much that I look like I’m not going to walk straight.

Marco raises a brow. I raise one back, then lean in close. “If we’re tourists, we wouldn’t walk around back.”

“Got it,” Marco mumbles.

We head toward the front of the hangars. As soon as we round the corner of the first one, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. Leo. I ignore him.

Marco starts laughing again as if something I said was hilarious. “But seriously, that chick.” He holds his free hand in front of his chest, mock squeezing a huge tit.

“You had a chance, man. I’m telling you.” I chuckle and make my suitcase swing behind me unevenly.

My phone buzzes again.

Up ahead, we’ve caught the attention of a couple of soldiers stationed outside Kozlova and Perez’s hangar. They eye us with disinterest.

“Where the fuck is our pane?” I stop, wobbling on my feet and twisting in all directions. “I swear the guy said it was right here.” I gesture to the empty hangar to my right.

“Naw, man,” Marco says. “It’s that one.” He points toward the soldiers and starts marching forward. I drag behind, using Marco as a shield in case the men recognize me.

As we approach, the men straighten, hands dipping into their jackets, where they keep their weapons in shoulder holsters.

“Hey,” Marco calls, too loud for the distance between the men and us. “One of you Carlos?”

The men, both of whom appear to be members of the Medina organization, share a look, then shake their heads.

“Oh, shit,” Marco says. “I don’t think they speak English. How the fuck do you say that in Spanish?”

“¿Dónde está Carlos?” I say with the most American accent I can.

“There’s no Carlos here,” one of the men answers, clearly irritated. “You’ve got the wrong hangar.”

“No, no,” Marco argues. “The guy back there"—he points toward the main building—“he told us this is where Carlos is. He’s supposed to fly us to Miami.”

“Fuckinggringos,” the man mutters to his cohort. “Go back and ask again.”

“God damn it,” Marco groans. “And I’ve gotta piss like a racehorse. You guys got a bathroom in there?” We’re close enough now that Marco can peer around the corner to look in their hangar.

One of the soldiers steps in front of him. “No one goes in.”

“Dude, please.” Marco starts bouncing like an indignant toddler. “You don’t understand how much I fucking drank today. I’m about to piss my pants.”

“Then piss them.” The guy shrugs.

“Hey.” I jump in. “How much would it take to let us go use your bathroom real quick? I’ve got five hundred in my wallet, and I bet he’s got some, too.”

“Yeah, I’ve got three,” Marco says. “That’s four hundred for each of you.”