(A/N: Sorry it's taken me a while; I've been busy. Please Read & Review.)

"Can't say it's been bad," said Holmes, doing his best to appear nonchalant. He was hoping against hope that this woman wouldn't realize that he wasn't the real Callador.

"That is wonderful, my love." She put her arms around his neck. "Kiss me, you big . . ." she trailed off as her lips met his.

Holmes thought he was in the clear, until the woman shoved him back and screamed, "PIG! This is not Callador, my brother!"

Villamos' thugs quickly surrounded him, grabbing his arms and removing the gun sticking out of his waistband.

"This is the man who had Callador arrested," said the woman, "but he will die slowly for it, eh? Sorry you let me go, Yankee?" Holmes just glared and spat at her.

"So, who do you think sent him, eh Carmelita?" said Villamos, "The CIA? The DEA? Maybe the American Mafia?"

"Let me find out, por favor." Carmelita was practically trembling with sadistic glee. So much so, that neither she nor her brother noticed that Holmes was carefully aiming his arm at the foot of one of the thugs that held him. Then, quickly flicking the trigger at his wrist, he fired his ballistic knife into the thug's foot.

As the guard jumped around, shrieking with pain, Holmes dealt a left hook to the other one's solar plexus and made a mad dash for the window, crashing through the glass and onto the ground. As he was righting himself to make a break for the nearby jungle, a group of what appeared to be hired muscle charged at him.

"Get the gringo!" yelled Villamos from the window, "A hundred bolívars to the man who brings him down!"

Normally, Holmes would have no trouble taking on dumb muscle with soccer riots as their only form of combat training, but there were too many of them, and every time he knocked down one, another would take his place. He didn't remember the blow that took him down.

Puerto Dulce: Day 2

Holmes woke to the smell of stale sweat and something sweet. He tried to think of the sort of place that would have a sickly, syrupy stink on the wind, but his head hurt too badly. He did, however, notice that the sun was just beginning to appear over the horizon.

"Everyone up," shouted a guard in Spanish, "Everyone works. Nobody on the sick list today. We have a double workload ahead of us before the rains."

The guard walked over to the cot where Holmes lay and poked him with his truncheon.

"You, Norteamericano," said the guard in English, "Get off your skinny gringo butt and move."

"Move, or we make you move," said another guard, tapping his hand with his own truncheon.

Holmes did so and fell in line behind another prisoner, whom he asked in Spanish, "What is this place?"

"A sugar plantation owned by the state." The small man turned his head to face Holmes. "You break the law in Puerto Dulce, you cut cane."

They came to the head of the line, where another guard handed them each a razor-sharp machete and two strips of leather.

"You wear the shin guards always," said the little man as he lead Holmes to the field, "The cane is like razors, cut you to pieces."

Holmes nodded and laced the leather across his legs.

"My name is Comadreja," said the man, "It is what they call me here. I run the coca on my fishing boat and they send me here for life."

"Call me 'Sigerson,'" said Holmes, "Thank you for your help, Coma."

They worked from dawn to dusk, through the hottest part of the day. The sun beat down upon the workers, burning Holmes' pale skin as he hacked through one bundle of sugar cane after another. Having had his watch taken away by the guards, he had only the vaguest idea of the time from the position of the sun. At noon, they were given a meal of cold beans, rice, and dirty water. Escape was impossible, as they were watched constantly and had their shoes taken away.

At the end of the day, Holmes collapsed upon his cot, more tired than he had ever been in his entire life. His feet had already acquired numerous cuts from the cane, and he knew that he'd have to make a break soon, while he could still walk.

Puerto Dulce: Day 3

Jane sat in the small boat she had rented, appearing to be nothing more than a sunbathing tourist whose only worry was what color to paint her nails. On the inside, her stomach was knotted in fear.

"Holmes should've been in touch days ago," she said to herself, "This can't be good."

Fortunately, Holmes had given her a list of Irregulars to call that would be able to help out if either of them ran into trouble. Grabbing her satellite phone, Jane dialed the first number on the list.

What have you gotten into this time, Holmes? thought Jane.

Seattle

The phone rang at the front desk of the Sunset Arms apartment complex, a flophouse down by the Seattle waterfront. The manager answered it with a disgruntled, "What?"

"I'm looking for a guy named Xavier Delgado. This is the last address I have for him. And make it fast, this is long distance."

The managed sighed. "Delgado! Anybody seen Delgado? He's got a call over here."

"I'm Delgado," said the large Mexican, approaching the desk.

"I ain't your secretary," the manager said with a snarl, "Don't stay on too long."

"Yeah, yeah," said Delgado, "Delgado, here."

"Xavier, it's Jane. I need your help. I think Holmes is in trouble."

"What's going on? Where are you?"

"I'm not sure what's going on, but Holmes and I are on an island in the Caribbean called Puerto Dulce. You've got the most jungle warfare experience out of all of the Baker Street Irregulars, right?"

"Yeah, I fought in Vietnam."

"Good. I've already called Mycroft. There's a plane ticket in your name at the Carib Air counter at Sea-Tac International. Mycroft will meet you and give you a key to a locker containing your passport and a thousand in cash."

"Where will I meet you?"

"I'm at the Marina de Munde, Bay eight. The boat I'm on is called The Krake."

"I'll be there soon. I just need to stop by my place and grab some ordnance."

Puerto Dulce: Day 5

Holmes was in awful shape, and he knew it. His feet were lacerated to the point where he could barely feel them, a wound on his leg was beginning to turn septic, and he'd picked up some sort of disease from the bugs in the water. The 16-hour days in the tropical sun weren't helping, either. The only relief was a water break every four hours.

This place is a death sentence, thought Holmes as he wearily stood in line for water.

Comadreja was drinking from the ladle, when a large man pushed him aside and said, "You have had enough!"

"Get your hands off me, Trollo!" he snapped back at the large man.

The giant raised his machete and said, "You do not speak to me so, little worm!"

"That's enough," said Holmes, grabbing the large man's hand. In truth, Holmes hardly cared at this point if the big idiot killed the little drug runner. But he was thirsty and needed the water, and couldn't take the chance of the guards breaking them up and sending them back to the fields without it.

"I will kill you!" snarled the huge man, swinging his machete at Holmes' head. Fortunately, Holmes had not completely lost his agility, and easily dodged the clumsy attack. He then put everything he had into a powerful roundhouse kick, sending the giant falling back onto a patch of recently cut cane. The giant gurgled in his throat, and finally died.

The guards surrounded Holmes and began to beat him with their clubs. Holmes fell to his knees, and then finally collapsed face down, hoping that when he woke, it would be in a place that didn't smell like blood and sugar.

Delgado walked across the marina, looking for a boat called The Krake. Finally, he spotted Jane.

"Thank God you're finally here," said Jane, motioning for him to sit down, "I've been worried sick."

"Sorry it took me longer than I thought," said Delgado, "my flight was delayed. Any news from Holmes?"

"No," said Jane, "And it'd be suicide for me to go into the town alone. I don't speak Spanish, there are revolutionaries everywhere, and the only weapon I have is a bottle of pepper spray."

"Then we'd best get a move on." Delgado rose and motioned for Jane to follow him. "Things are going to get hot down here, and we have to get Holmes and get out before they do."

Meanwhile, at the Villamos villa, Ernesto Villamos watched as the island's oil refineries began to burn.

"The revolutionaries have set fire to the oil refineries," he said to his sister, his voice hard as stone.

Carmelita just shrugged and continued to paint her nails. "We have an army to take care of things like that. Do you like this color?"

"The guerrillas have grown more daring," said Villamos, "They raid inside the capital now and have shut down the power plants three times this month."

"We have our own power, mi hermano," said Carmelita, "You worry so much. Have a drink and relax."

"'Relax?'" Villamos exited the balcony and closed the doors. "Puerto Dulce no longer receives foreign aid from the United States. How long can our shrinking army keep the guerrillas at bay? We don't want to be here if the troublemakers become the lawmakers here, Hermana."

Puerto Dulce: Day 6

"So, you like to fight, eh?" The warden, a great fat man, was standing over Holmes, who'd been placed in a small cage that prevented him from standing, lying down, or even sitting comfortably.

When Holmes did not answer, the warden continued. "Well, I give you a chance to fight, okay? You see, gringo, Señor Villamos says that you are a mystery to him. He sent you here to find out who sent you to our island. But you been here about a week, and nobody ask for you. You are a lonely guy, huh? No friends."

Holmes just glared and said nothing.

"Well," said the warden, "You are a wiry Norteamericano. I will bet on you in the fights. You win, and I will be your friend, eh? You think about it, okay? But don't go nowhere."

The warden walked off with the guards, chuckling at his own joke.

At the same time, Jane and Xavier sat at an outside table in front of a small café, drinking lemonade.

"Lot of cops and soldiers on the street," said Delgado, "Just like it was in Saigon, back in '75. This place is gonna bust wide open like a piñata. Holmes sure knows how to find trouble."

"Yep," said Jane, "he does have a knack for it. Speaking of which, any luck so far?"

Xavier shook his head. "I've checked everywhere and there's no word that Holmes was killed. This Villamos guy is in pretty tight with the ruling junta."

"His family's been in sugar and tobacco for centuries," said Jane.

"So what could've happened if Holmes isn't dead?" asked Delgado.

"Based off what a cop told me, he'd probably be shipped off to a prison farm. It's the standard punishment out here."

Suddenly, gunshots rang out from the diner, and shabbily clad figures rushed out yelling, "DEATH TO THE WEALTHY PIGS! DEATH TO THE FIVE FAMILIES!"

"Get down!" said Delgado, flipping the table to use it as a shield as the guerrillas ran past them, "It's another bunch of idiots looking to go to workers' paradise in pieces."

"What do you mean?" asked Jane. Delgado indicted one of them with dynamite strapped to his chest as he ran toward a truckload of soldiers.

"FOR FREEDOM!" yelled the revolutionary as he hurled himself under the wheels. The truck exploded, spraying wood, metal, and human remains.

The fights had begun. Holmes knew that the smart money, if there was any smart money, was not on him. He was exhausted, malnourished, burning with fever, and probably a little concussed. The only armor he'd been given was a few pieces of cloth to wrap around his hands.

"My money is on the gringo," said the warden to the other guards, "I like the look from his eye."

The guards all pooled their money into a large pot as they placed their bets on the four fighters.

"Everything here," said the warden, "All my gambling wages from the last six months ride on the Yankee. Fight good for me. Fight to win, gringo. The winner goes free."

The other fighters were looking at Holmes like he was a steak dinner, a date with Miss November, and the New York State Lottery all rolled into one. He took a deep breath and prayed that he still had enough left in him to win.

(A/N: Not looking too good for him, is it? Please Review.)

TO BE CONTINUED.