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The thrumming of the cicadas was interrupted only by light, shallow splashes that accompanied the fisherman’s boots. The jungle canopy opened up just enough to let sunlight peek through into the secluded berth surrounded by thick rainforest meant for a fishing boat, which was occupied currently not by a fishing trawler but an irregular plastic vessel, with flat decking and a hatch above a viewport located at the very rear of the vessel.

The fisherman’s long, muddied, black rubber boots trudged through the ankle-deep water as he surveyed his vessel, scrutinizing its plastic hull for cracks or holes.

“¡Oy, Gregorio! ¡El hombre está aquí!” Came a gruff alert from above, several meters out into the weedy earth.
“¿Señor Llanos? Estoy con el gobierno.” Asked a comparatively squeaky voice.

Two figures appeared at the edge of the fishing dock, overlooking the fisherman and his work. The owner of the squeaky voice was a suited and clean-shaven man, with a dainty figure and pale and uncalloused skin. His companion was the opposite, being a sunburned and rough figure covered in tattoos and tan lines. Another difference was that of armament; the burnt one had his hand resting naturally on his holster.

“Oy, muchacho, here’s a federal to see you.” The gunman said, bringing his voice down. The fisherman stopped his inspection of the vessel and looked up at his visitors.

“Señor Llanos, I come on behalf of the Ministry of War to make a final offer for your ship. I hope--” The official said, before being cut off by the fisherman.

“Are you paying the ten million?” Llanos said.

“Well, señor, I should inform you that my government did not feel obliged to pay so much for so little. De hecho--” The official started in a flustered tone, before being cut off by Llanos yet again.

“Just tell me, chico, do I get the ten million?” Llanos asked, shifting his stance in the water impatiently.

“My government does not feel comfortable doling so much of their funds on so little a vessel. Nor do they feel that you really deserve immunity for charging anything higher than four million.”

Llanos chuckled in a sardonic way before nodding towards the gangly official’s wide-set companion. The holster came undone in an inconspicuous, almost natural way-- like stretching, but nevertheless it was obvious enough for the pale man to notice and understand the implication.

“Ustedes federales-- listen, we’re both caballeros here, but I need some grease to run this place, you know? When I heard you needed my assets, I suddenly needed to get rid of a full order of materials and let down customers across the waves. Who was going to pay the bills for us if we didn’t get that shipment in? You also needed me to make modifications, which cost a pretty penny as well. Dios mío-- I reckon all that work must have at least earned us some respect and our well-deserved compensation of 10 million dolares. Don’t you think?”

“I’m not to be pushed around like that. Ten million is far--” The official said. The hammer of a pistol was pulled back, releasing an audible click.

The official clenched their fists and seemed to retreat behind their eyes as they worked out what to say. Eventually, they worked their way to respond as the pistol was slowly withdrawn from the holster.

“Ten million will await you at the agreed-upon time and place, señor.”

A smile worked its way onto Llanos’ face. “Well, ¡qué un ganga! I’ll be sure to collect the payment.”

The official’s companion grinned too and quickly holstered his weapon.

“Well, if you’d like to examine the product, the water’s fine.”

The maritime district of Macotera was renowned across Almadaria for its colorful seafood and cuisine, tall loading cranes and full warehouses, and berths that stretched across the waters of the city that were filled with cargo and cruise ships; all of which were indicators of a prosperous economy.

However, in just the peripheral of these wide dockyards lay auxiliary piers for smaller craft. Here, the SS La Barata and the SS Therasia idled their diesel engines, spewing a stream of barely discernable smoke from their engine compartment. The fishing vessels, both licensed and visibly used many times before, were now the property of Arb 38 Ltd., a little-known company that had emerged in the previous hours, then went on to purchase a considerable fleet of fishing vessels.

“Aweigh anchor!” Called the captain of the Barata out to the sailor on the bow. The captain then took one last look across the bay before retreating belowdecks. There, in a swaying, dimly-lit compartment, stood a table bolted to the floor with a wide, crinkled map that had markings for deployment, up and up and up almost all the way to--

Miami. They were to head to Miami to pick up paupers for their economy class transport to Almadaria while fishing in waters outside the waters of neighboring nations. Of course, they also had licenses to transport people. There was no reason to suspect them whatsoever. No burnt map to tip their hand, nor legal loose end in their record.

”Oy! Calm down!” Came a shout over the crowd. The voice was quickly drowned out by boyish chatter as a company’s worth of tourists, clad in sunhats, pinkish polos, black leather belts, and khaki shorts swarmed from customs and into the sun-baked sidewalk outside the building.

“¿Qué es todo esto?” Asked a nearby citizen of Kynor, sitting peacefully on a nearby bench. The shouter, who had been swept by the crowd to the front, responded sheepishly,
“Grupo de la iglesia.”

“¡Oye! ¡Oye! Grupo uno, ir de compras; grupo dos, a las playas; grupo tres, conmigo a la caminata por la naturaleza. Meet back at the hotel at 9:00 pm minimum.” Came another shout, hidden deep in the group.

The party, having passed customs, were now free to roam the island.
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Similar occurrences, although not all as uniform in appearance, arrived at locations all over the Caribbean. These tourists were likely a result of the undesirable circumstances in Almadaria, forcing civilians to enjoy their time elsewhere in the climate. They streamed in over the course of hours, and, apart from the largest group that arrived in Nassau, were a nearly imperceptible increase in tourism.

”Fly shakier.”
“¿Qué carajo significa eso?”
“Rafael, you disappoint me sometimes. You’re supposed to be a pilot in training. Just fly shakier.”

“Fine.” A long pause. “How far do we have to go?”

“We go this route for a few days. Then we deliver packages.”

“That’s boring.”

“Well, it beats screwing with a country thrice our size in close quarters on the ground.”

“I hear they’re actually going shopping.”

“I hear that too. But we’re not landing there to find out.”