Alan crouched, hidden in dense brush and peering at the back of the house. Rather than drive right to the property, he’d parked on a half-overgrown road on the edge of a cow pasture, a road separated from the laboratory by one hundred meters of dense vegetation. This was a steamy, thorny patch of jungle filled with mosquitos, biting ants, poisonous spiders, and even more deadly vipers. But Alan had been more worried about animals of another kind, for which there was no anti-venom. He’d headed through the dense growth with only a moment’s hesitation, gingerly creeping toward the house.

Now, twenty minutes later, having reached the other side of the thicket, he considered his options. When he had first saw the house, he’d judged all was well, and nearly walked out into the clearing. But then he’d caught a glimpse of a broken pane on the back door, and immediately stopped in his tracks.

They’d already been here. They must’ve searched the house, he surmised. Alan’s impulse was to go quickly inside, get his passport and belongings, and run up the road to his vehicle. But, instead, he moved horizontally within the wall of the forest.

It was then he saw a shiny piece of metal to his right. Hidden in the edge of the jungle on the far side of the house was a vehicle.

Alan froze. He’d not been seen. The lone figure in the front seat was talking on a communications device of some sort, eyes fixed on the dirt driveway leading unto the property. Even as Alan crouched in the humid vegetation, salty sweat burning his eyes, he detected some movement in the laboratory. They were waiting for him to return from his research. He slowly worked his way back through the thick brush to his car.

As Alan drove toward the main road he considered his options. It seemed pointless to run for it—drive to Campo Grande or Sao Paulo. This was, after all, the Syndicate. They were more powerful than some governments. Now they are aware he has packed, they have his passport, and probably by now his airline reservation. There are probably others being mobilized right now. There was no way they would ever let him slip through. The three Policial checkpoints between here and Campo Grande would offer more danger than ally, just places to delay or detain him, while the stretches of empty highway bisecting the jungle between checkpoints were ideal places to make someone disappear. The same with the road to Sao Paulo. Or they may wait for him in the airport, or in Sao Paulo trying to get a passport.

The local police, the local underpaid police, were clearly not an option. He might as well turn himself into the Syndicate as do that.

Alan calmed, however, when he thought of the IBDE. The International Bureau of Drug Enforcement had a fairly decent reputation and a major Brazilian presence. If he could call them, he might reach a trustworthy person.

But, then again, what good would it do anyway? The upstream Satobra drug site would surely have dumped the drugs and released any jaú before the slow-moving, clamorous IBDE operation ever arrived at that remote jungle site. And he’d heard a rumor from the locals about remote transmitting cameras on some of the trees in the area—comments that until now he’d dismissed as barroom tall tales. Of course, the IBDE would never find one of the cartel’s catfish in the big river systems of the Miranda, Paraguay or Parana. That would be far worse than looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. A bottom-dwelling fish in a massive river system? More like looking for a hay-colored needle in a haystack.

And even then, the IBDE would only get involved if they believed this incredulous claim of a drug-smuggling super-jaú in the first place, believed it enough to launch an extraordinary effort of manpower and money against the background of potentially a major public embarrassment. What evidence did he have? He had no jaú. He had a bag of drugs buried on his property. With his fingerprints on the plastic bag. They would just arrest the obvious suspect—the man who also claims to have illegally captured and ripped up a jaú. And the IBDE wouldn’t help him with his immediate problem: He was in the crosshairs of the Syndicate because of what he’d stumbled upon. He was their main target.

Alan could not see any viable options. Only the certainty that his time was up. He cursed a universe where his life seemed defined by the hand of chance or some capricious deities. He cursed his ill luck and meaningless little existence. He was facing his death alone. There was nowhere to run, and no one to save him. The only thing left to consider was how he wanted to face his fate.

It is a funny thing what insights can come to a person who is facing the expectation of death, and who, rather than running scared like a hunted rabbit, bent on self-preservation, begins to consider how to live what time remains until the last breath is drawn. When a man stops his single-minded fixation on himself, his happiness, his fame, his this and his that, and instead contemplates giving that last breath for something greater.

When Alan realized that there was nowhere to run, when he began to ponder how to use his final minutes, another idea crept in, and a profound calmness overtook him. He knew what to do. What was a major problem offered a singular opportunity. And he knew how to grasp this opportunity.

Alan drove up to his isolated research area. He’d been wise to never tell anyone about this site, always careful not to reveal where the half million-dollar dorado was safely swimming and collecting data. Alan moved a little further upstream to a shallow area. He would need to be able to wade into the stream this time. He set the dorado back into the river, and watched the monitor. He was composed now, focused and determined. He had a purpose; a goal.

It was almost dark before another jaú showed up. Alan had been prepared to stay all night, using specialized equipment if necessary. But he knew a jaú would show up soon. There was too much involved in this drug operation to risk discovery. And he was right. By the time the first jaú came downstream, he could note others were also moving down. They were dumping the drugs and the jaú. His disappearance was making them nervous.

Alan grabbed the backpack electrofishing unit and in no time had caught a jaú: it was easier on foot and when there were so many. He was careful with the fish. It took him only minutes to cut a small incision and insert his package. The whole operation wouldn’t have taken so long, if he’d not had to also cut the dorado.

Alan released the jaú, put the dorado back in its transport tank, and headed out. Not for Campo Grande. That would be suicide. But in the opposite direction, deeper into the Pantanal.