Lionheart

Don't worry.

What, you don't trust me?

I've got the money.

Let's see the stuff.

Let's see

the money.

Money.

This is sugar.

No shit.

Yeah, no shit.

And this is gasoline.

That's right, man.

It's gasoline.

Yeah, come on.

Torch him, man.

No.

Mrs. Gaultier, I'm sorry this

had to happen to your family.

We've done everything

that can be done.

In cases like this it is very difficult

to make any kind of prediction,

so for the next couple of months

it's going to be touch and go.

Mrs. Gaultier...

The insurance has expired,

I know.

Does he have any

other relatives,

anyone else that

could possibly help?

No. Come on, Nicole.

Let's go.

Lyon. Lyon.

Lyon? Lyon!

Lyon!

Hi, Lyon.

I bet you're wondering what's in the

old goodie sack for you today, huh?

Let's have a look.

There we go.

Legionnaire Lyon Gaultier.

Yes.

It's very nice.

No interest, eh?

Okay, back she goes.

Yeah, Gaultier,

that's me.

This one's been out

in the sun too long.

She said she tried to call me

two weeks ago. Nobody told me.

Why?

This is the Foreign Legion,

Gaultier, not Club Med.

We're talking

about my brother.

He could be dead by now.

And we could be at war with

the bloody wogs tomorrow.

I need your ass here. Your

brother is not my problem.

Or yours anymore.

You gave up your family

when you joined the Legion.

I never gave up my family.

Never.

Legionnaire, I don't have

time for this Scheie.

I need to see my brother.

You need what

I tell you you need.

And right now, I think you

need two weeks' hard labor.

Starting tomorrow.

You want something else

to cry about legionnaire?

We can arrange it.

You only have six months left

in the Legion, Gaultier.

Don't make it six years.

You're a real asshole.

Is there

a problem, sir?

No, no, no, no, no.

No problem.

Desert fever, this is your real problem.

Too many weeks

in the hot sun.

Shall we try

sweatbox, sir?

Yes, this might help.

Just until his

fever breaks.

Cover your head,

Legionnaire.

Move.

Your belt.

Come on.

Move!

Your hotel room

is ready. Let's go.

Come on.

Okay.

Get me a fucking jeep!

There is no sign

of him, sir.

He'll never make it.

If the wogs don't

kill him, then the desert will.

Just in case, head down to the

docks first thing in the morning.

The ocean's his only

way out of the country.

Moustafa,

go this way.

Hey!

Get your ass back down below!

Get down to those

boiler rooms now!

Okay, okay.

This ain't no pleasure

cruise. Move your ass!

The letter was

from his sister-in-law.

We are fortunate.

Our intelligence section makes a habit

of recording the return addresses.

We'll contact the Americans and ask

them to keep her under surveillance.

Inspector,

this man is a deserter,

a traitor to France

and a goddamn terrorist.

Adjutant, all I can do

is transmit the word.

If the Los Angeles cops

aren't too busy busting dope dealers,

gang rapists and serial killers

maybe they will have time

to bring the asshole in.

And if they don't,

tough shit.

If they do not,

maybe I can help.

You stay off the top deck,

First Mate's orders.

You were told not to come up.

Am I right?

Yeah.

And you told me that ship's

gonna go to Los Angeles.

What difference

does it make?

You ain't got no green card,

you ain't got no visa.

You ain't getting off this

boat anywhere, Frenchie.

So get your ass below

before somebody reports you, a

deserter, stowed away on their ship.

I pay for the trip.

I'm being generous Frenchie.

You keep stocking my boilers or you'll

be breaking rocks in the hot sun.

Now, what's it gonna be?

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