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Rio hunched over a regional map I had brought that was color coded to indicate the ocean borders of different countries’ national waters. Rio seemed fit but old—how old I couldn’t tell, sixty-five perhaps—with leathery skin and crow’s-feet framing his eyes. Tapping his finger on the map, he touched several dots that I had marked to indicate where several countries’ waters converged. Shaking his head, Rio widened his eyes in fear. Then he silently reached over and opened a dashboard compartment revealing a Glock handgun.
