Page 84 of Her Redeemed Protector

I keep walking, ignoring him, my mind filled with thoughts of Huxley. My heart always drifts back to my Hugs, and part of me wishes I could just turn around and tell Fabian outright:I love Huxley.

“Trouble in paradise?” Fabian taunts as I slam the car door shut.

I sit in the silence of my car, waiting for Fabian to leave. Only when he’s gone do I start the engine and pull onto the road. A short distance away, I notice a car parked oddly on theside. It’s an unusual sight for this quiet road that mostly serves locals. The car makes a sharp U-turn and speeds off.

Goosebumps prickle my skin. It’s not like him, but… is Hux spying on me?

33

HUXLEY

The workload at Red Mark is climbing, each case more urgent than the last. Despite the pressure, Chase and I have been successful, reconnecting families at a pace that makes even our seasoned team members pause. The thrill of success is a powerful rush, yet in its wake, I’m often reminded of my own solitude, fully committed to my cause but undeniably alone.

Thank heavens for Jack and his delightful children, who bring chaos and laughter to my otherwise quiet weekends. After the roaring laughter and mess from our last gathering, we’ve scheduled another session for today, giving Jack’s wife, Ava, a chance to indulge in some retail therapy.

As I arrive at their doorstep, bags teeming with treats and essentials, Jack greets me, finger pressed to his lips in a silent ‘shush.’

“They’re out cold,” he whispers with a relieved grin. “Rough night. They hardly slept. This morning, they just crashed.”

I nod, my voice hushed as I hand him a coveted item from one of the bags. “Found the formula you were looking for.”

Jack’s expression brightens immensely, and in a momentof gratitude, he pulls me into a bear hug that nearly sweeps me off my feet. “Man, you’re a lifesaver! We’ve been to every store, and nobody had it. Ava and I were at our wits’ end. Baby Harper can only stomach this brand without fuss.”

I toss him a proud smile, clapping him on the back as he steps aside to let me in.

Barely reaching the living room, I feel the vibration in my pocket. Damn, it might be a duty call. But as I answer, a frantic voice spills out in rapid Spanish, each word colliding with the next, a train wreck of urgency. Jack, reading the situation, gestures toward his study, a silent plea not to wake the kids.

In the study, I try to catch the names being repeated. “Rodolfo… Marta...” It’s a panicked cascade I can’t quite grasp. “Slow down! Who are you?” I pace, tension building, my voice straining. “Can you speak English?” But the words keep tumbling out in Spanish, relentless and breathless.

“Hold on!” I gesture for Jack. The former Marine’s years in Florida had given him a handle on Spanish far better than mine.

Taking the phone, Jack listens, then his face tightens as he translates, “Marta went out to see Valentina’s body.” A cold shiver runs down my spine. Valentina’s body? It must be?—

I feel sick. Valentina’s body was found years ago, but there was something about it that nobody on this side of the world knows. It’s literally the horrifying half-truths of what really happened to her.

Jack’s voice is grim. “She was shot. Marta was shot.”

My heart plummets. “Shot? Marta was shot?” I hope the caller grasps my desperate tone. “Who are you?”

Jack speaks to her, then turns to me. “She’s Marta’s sister.”

“Where’s Rodolfo?” I manage to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“He’s with her,” Jack says, his voice low. “Marta’s gone, butthe boy’s alive. The cartel, they’re after him now, avenging Enzo.”

Things always go back to Operation Jaguar Strike. Enzo… the dead twin brother of the girl I’d rescued from that hellish compound.

“Tell her to get Rodolfo to the US Embassy immediately,” I instruct.

Jack promptly relays the message, but his frown deepens. “She says it’s too dangerous.”

My pulse quickens as I sift through alternatives. “Then take him to the Bebe nail salon in Ciudad Bolívar. There’s a basement they can hide in.”

Jack shoots me a questioning look as he translates. That salon, hidden in one of the city’s main immigrant settlements, had once been a secret meeting spot for Valentina and me. I cling to the hope that it remains a haven. “I’ll coordinate an escort from there.”

Jack’s fingers tap against his phone, his eyes locked on the screen. “She’s asking how she’ll recognize the escort,” he says.

Time is slipping through my fingers. This plan has to work even before it begins. “Tell her to wait for the codeword—Rodeo Rod,” I say, planting certainty into each syllable.

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