You're jostled a bit as the helicopter lands, the jungle outside covered in darkness, and the roar of its blades slow and stop.  A man walks between the three of you, south-american by the looks of it and covered in scars, but with a smile that stretches from ear to ear.

"Rise and shine babes, I've been told you have a job to do."

You hear him gather mucus at the back of his throat, and then he spits on the floor.  He laughs.

"Hey, it ain't my copter.  So here's how this works; I un-handcuff you, and I give you what I've been instructed to give you, and you get out.  That's it.  You'll be provided with a tape courtesy of our employers, and I'll leave.  I doubt either of you know how to operate a helicopter but just in case you're thinking of trying anything -- don't bother.  The thing's rigged to blow and only I know how to take off without that happening, and you'll be stuck in the middle of wherever-the-fuck this is on your own."

He saunters over to the Russian and pats his cheek, giggling when the soviet growls.

"Understand, babes?"