The scar-faced man nodded. "Certainly. Luis, we can leave the park now."

The driver turned right, the Volkswagen on his bumper, and proceeded down an avenue until he turned right onto a dark side street. Blancanales parked behind them.

The two passengers left the taxi. Lyons, his Python held ready under his windbreaker, saw headlights swing around the corner and stop. He looked in the other direction and saw a motorbike swerve into the shadows. Its headlight went black, but the rider did not dismount.

"You people are organized," Lyons muttered as he opened the Volskwagen's sliding door. He got in. Dr. Orozco followed him.

Gadgets winced at the doctor's scars, found he had to look away. The doctor ignored the North American's shock and extended his left hand for handshakes.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. And now that I can speak with all of you, let us discuss fighting Unomundo together."

"How do you know what we're here for?" Lyons asked.

"After you abandoned Captain Merida, we questioned him."

"You've followed us all day?" Gadgets asked, amazed.

"We thought your escape from the terminal very dramatic. Very much like American television."

"Who do you represent?" Blancanales asked.

"I represent our group. We have talked together and agreed to help you."

"What are your politics?" Lyons demanded.

Dr. Orozco smiled. "You Yankees are so naive. First, if we were Communists, would I tell you? And if we were, would you now be alive? Do not judge us all by the bumbling of a one-handed, half-blind doctor stupid with the thought of revenge. We have grenades, we have machine guns. We could have killed you a hundred times today."

"You have any foreign connections?" Lyons asked.

"You mean, Russia? Libya? Nicaragua? No. We have families and friends in the United States and Mexico and Europe. Sometimes they send us money. But we do not need it. We work."