In a bar, two young women and a guy were doing shots of tequila. They were shaken up. Both of the women had cuts on their faces. The young man’s right arm hung in a sling. They had just survived a small plane crash in the jungle. They walked a long way to the bar in Guatavita.
“How much extra did you take?” Dottie asked.
“Not so much. He’ll never miss it,” Rhett said.
“Yeah, but how much?”
“Are you crazy? You were supposed to take a couple bricks. Just for us. Just for fun. Burner’s gonna know— like tonight.”
“This is really bad,” Jane said. She signaled the waiter for another round.
They popped them down. Over the booze bottles on a shelf stood a stuffed coyote.
“We gotta get out of here,” Dottie said. Her hair was blond. She wore short shorts and a green halter top.
“Really, like now,” Jane said. The cut on her cheek was bleeding onto her long white t-shirt. She was barefoot with a butterfly tattoo on her ankle.
“I’m getting us out,” Rhett said.
“How are you doing that?” Dottie asked.
“I got a plan.”
“Dude, chill. Hey, waiter.”
“Doubles,” Jane said.
The waiter brought big glasses filled to the brim. The door to the street was open. Wind blew dust into the sour darkness of the bar.
Rhett finished his drink. “So y’all stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t get drunk.”
Rhett grabbed a backpack at his feet with his good arm. He walked out into the narrow street. There were old cars. A few people. Donkeys. Lots of flies. The sun was bright and hard. He walked up a hill lined with eucalyptus trees. He stopped in front of a small brick building. A sign above the door read: Policia Nacional de Colombia. He went inside.