"Bobby, y'could jus' take highway eleven."

Bobby gripped the steering wheel.  He was in love with an internationally wanted criminal, there were bound to be certain drawbacks.  The car bumped along yet another side road, as Bobby steered carefully around potholes.  Why couldn't this stupid state just keep its roads up?  He took a breath, and answered, "Am I the one that forgot the South Florida map?"

Remy sounded apologetic.  "I tol'ya, it was just that cop in th'bank, I thought he recognized me, an' it--"

There, that was it.  Bobby braked suddenly, veering to the right.  He gritted his teeth as the car squeaked, but they made the turn.  "Excuses."

"Honest, I didn' mean t' forget, but sometimes when y' see a police man, an' everyone from Interpol to th' Russian hit squads are lookin' for you?"  Remy turned the interior light on, and took his seatbelt off.  "Y' get a little nervous."

Bobby dared to glance over at what Remy was doing.  He was, currently, bent over sideways and rooting around in the backseat, ass in the air and feet almost kicking the dashboard.  "What the hell are you looking for, anyway?"

Remy pulled himself further into the backseat, contorting his body to fit between the driver and passenger seats.  "Jus' wait an' see."

"Remy--"

They hit another bump, and Bobby turned back to the road.  Stupid Florida.  Stupid Florida and their stupid airports being halfway in the middle of some stupid swamp.  Stupid jewel heist.  Stupid--

"merde!" Remy yelped, as Bobby braked again, taking yet another one-lane highway.  This, at least, looked like highway eleven.  "I know y' angry, cher, but could we please try not t' remove m'head from my body?"

"Don't need your head," Bobby answered absently, as he read street signs.  Ahhh.  Key West International Airport, two miles. *finally*.  "Just your body."

"Regardless," Remy answered.  He rubbed the back of his head, and then pulled their back seat down, reaching into the trunk.  Bobby spared a glance in the rear view mirror, nervously watching Remy pull out their gear.  "What is it you're looking for, anyway?" Bobby asked, curiously.

"GPS tracker," Remy answered, and finally sat back again, re-buckling his seat belt.  "Y' still mad at me?"

Bobby slowed down, easing the car onto the airport road and keeping an eye out for any late-night patrols that could be coming by.  "Nah," he answered.  "You nearly killed yourself in the trunk," he said.  "I'm satisfied vengeance was done."

"Found th' tracker, too," Remy replied helpfully.  "Might not need it yet, but soon."

"That's my boy," Bobby said absently, as he looked for the hourly parking lot.  "Now you'd better repack our gear and quick, mister, cause we're here."

~