"Poor bastards," Jim says.
The Americans have left their Humvee and stand amongst the South American dead.
"They never had a chance," Sophia says.
A single smoke trail drifts upwards from a small fire that smolders in the yellow truck's engine compartment.
Sophia and Matt cover Books and Jim as they check each body for any sign of life.
Jim trains his gun on one of the dead, as Books yanks the man over onto his back.
"South Americans." Jim spots the flag on the man's bloody uniform.
Matt inspects another body. "All of them."
The Americans work their way around the carnage.
"How many we got?" Cutter asks.
"Eight," Books says.
"And the dead guy at the laser fence makes nine," Matt says.
"He must have escaped with the case," Jedi adds.
"No way—he knew what he was doing. He took off with the money and left his guys to take all the bullets," Lloyd says. "Fucking gutless robbing bastard."
"We're one body short—ten in a team, right," Matt says.
"Maybe whoever killed these guys took him," Sophia suggests.
"I don't think so," Jedi says. He looks out over the tracks made by the South American's Humvee. "Look—over there." Jedi points to a small yellow speck in the distance.
"That's our man," Books says. "Let's go take a look."
***
Marcos Garcia is barely alive. Relieved, he watches the orange vehicles head toward him. He would like some company before he dies.
***
Alone, Lloyd and Cutter sit opposite each other in the back of the Humvee as it rumbles toward Marcos.
"Pretty fucking ironic," Lloyd says.
"What is?"
"Us."
"You mean us all here, or"—he points to himself and Lloyd— "us?"
"Yeah, me and you . . . us."
"What about it?" Cutter asks.
"Being on the same team. You think?"
"We're Americans, so . . . what?"
"Yeah, but we don't exactly share the same social circles if you get my drift."
"Never gonna happen, Lloyd. You're on one side of the law, and I'm on the other."
"And yet we end up here on the same team, fighting for each other. I just think that's pretty fucking ironic."
"Makes no difference to me. Been fighting all my life anyways."
"At least we have that in common."
Silence surrounds them, apart from the noise of the Humvee's engine.
Then Cutter asks, "How can you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Charging all that money trying to make a guilty man innocent?"
"That's not me, Cutter, that's the system. You'd do it too. You'd take the easy government money. Besides, I like guys like you—they make me rich."
"Fuck you. I got something you'll never have."
"What's that?"
"Honor."
Lloyd laughs. "Of course—honor amongst thieves. Well, that sure don't pay the bills, brother."
"I'm getting me more than enough money for the rest of my life." Cutter nods down at the cash-filled cases stacked on the floor of the Humvee.
"Well, make sure you don't blow it all on those expensive cars and cheap women—guys like you always do."
"So what if I do? I got nothing to lose. Never had me nothing anyways. Its rich guys like you got it all to lose."
"Really?"
"Yeah, every waking hour. Guys like you look at guys like me and sweat. They sweat because they spend all their lives worrying about their big-assed houses and their share portfolios and never getting candy sucked off their dicks again by five-thousand-dollar-a-night hookers they can no longer afford. Yeah, Lloyd, guys like you—got it all to lose."
Cutter and Lloyd stare at each other.
The Humvee stops.
***
Marcos can barely focus on the Humvee and the KTM that have parked nearby. He is just able to watch the Americans walk toward him before his eyes close.
Jim kneels beside Marcos. "He's alive—just."
Marcos' breath is shallow and irregular. Jim looks down at the old man's shattered body, then up at the other Americans, and then shakes his head.
"You . . . who . . . ?" Marcos tries to talk.
Sophia kneels down beside him. "I need water here."
"Ame-r-i-cans?" Marcos croaks.
"Easy there," Sophia says.
Jedi hands a water bottle to Sophia, who brings it up to Marcos' lips and wets them. She notices a roughly drawn Christian cross scratched out into the ground next to his right hand.
Marcos takes a sip of the water. It is all he can do. He whispers to Sophia in Spanish, "You have come to help me?"
"My name is Sophia Smith. I am an American. Who did this to you?" She also speaks in Spanish.
"Africans—South Africans."
Sophia puts her arm around Marcos. "Old man, I cannot save you. But I will comfort you." With the back of her sleeve, she wipes his brow. "I will stay with you until your god takes you."
A teardrop trickles down Marcos' cheek.
"What is your name?" Sophia asks.
"Marcos—Marcos Garcia. You will . . . do something for . . . me?"
"I will try."
"Tell . . . my . . . wife . . ."
"Yes, Marcos?"
"Tell . . . my . . . wife I-I . . . love her . . . very much."
"I will find her for you and tell her, Marcos Garcia—" Sophia whispers, then she rocks him gently and repeats his name, "Marcos Garcia—Marcos Garcia—Marcos Garcia."
Marcos smiles. His head slumps forward, and he dies in her arms. She still rocks him.
The Americans bow their heads in respectful silence.
Matt drops his gun. "Lunacy. This is all—" He tilts his head back and screams, "—FUCKING LUNACY."
