Free Island of Thieves by Josh Lacey

I looked back at the farmhouse. Our hosts were still standing in the doorway of their tumbledown home, waving to us.
    I thought about the pile of papers now sitting in the trunk of the car, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag and zipped inside my uncle’s suitcase. Then I thought about the old folks and their sixty dollars, and I suddenly felt ashamed of myself—and my uncle. The old couple shared their food with us, gave us somewhere to sleep, let us do what we liked to their house, waved us off, and were now intensely, embarrassingly grateful for the paltry sum of sixty dollars, which we’d handed over in exchange for the key to priceless treasure.
    We hadn’t actually lied to them, or even stolen from them. But it still made me feel like a crook.
    I looked at my uncle, wondering if he was feeling the same way.
    He was grinning to himself and whistling under his breath as he watched the road ahead. I’d never seen anyone look less guilty.
    There was no point in talking to him about my doubts. He’d just laugh and tell me to stop being such a sentimental fool. Perhaps he’d be right. Instead, I asked, “Where are we going now?”
    â€œLima,” said Uncle Harvey. “We’ll stay with Alejandra.”
    â€œI thought you said we were going to stay in a hotel.”
    â€œWe’ve got to give her car back. And she’s a great cook. Plus it’ll be free. Once we’re there, we’ll sit down with the manuscript and work out where this island actually is.”
    â€œShouldn’t we stay here in the middle of the countryside? Won’t Otto be able to find us in Lima?”
    â€œNo, no. A big city is the best place to hide. Out here, we’re the only gringos for miles. Whenever someone sees us, they’ll know we’re foreign and wonder what we’re doing. In Lima, we’ll blend in.”
    I had one more question: “Do you think it’s a real island?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it be?”
    â€œI had a look at a map of Peru. There aren’t very many islands along the coast.”
    â€œWhere was this map?”
    â€œIn the guidebook.”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you not to trust guidebooks? Those maps are hopeless. They only show tourist destinations. There are hundreds of tiny islands up and down the coast of Peru. Look at a proper map and you’ll see them.”
    I wasn’t sure if that made things better or worse. If there were really hundreds of tiny islands along the coast, how were we ever going to find the right one? Wouldn’t it take years?
    Today was Friday. We’d already been in Peru for two nights. Our flight back to New York left on Monday. Uncle Harvey could delay his and stay another week, another month, however long he wanted, but I couldn’t. I had to get back to New York in time to meet Mom and Dad and pretend I hadn’t been anywhere more exciting than the Natural History Museum.
    â€œWhat’s this?” said Uncle Harvey.
    I lifted my head.
    Up ahead, a big black Toyota Land Cruiser was blocking the road. Two men were standing by the open hood. They waved at us to stop. They must have broken down.
    As we came closer, I got a better view of the men. They were wearing leather boots, blue jeans, and white shirts rolled up to the elbows. One of them had a pair of binoculars slung around his neck. There was something familiar about his square shoulders and his big head. Then I realized why. “It’s Miguel,” I blurted out.
    Uncle Harvey must have recognized him at the exactly same moment, because he had already thrust his foot onto the accelerator. The car sprang forward. We headed straight at Miguel, speeding up all the time.
    If someone were driving a car at me, I’d jump out of the way, but Miguel didn’t even flinch. He reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun.
    A gun?
    A gun!
    I’d seen a few guns before. My friend Benjy lives out on a farm and he has an