Page 85 of Her Redeemed Protector

Jack nods, his expression taut as he sends the message. Moments later, he looks up, his eyes meeting mine with a flicker of relief. “Marta’s sister has acknowledged the plan.”

The line clicks dead just as a cry pierces the silence from the other room. Little Harper. I flinch, guilt mixing with the adrenaline.

“I’m sorry, man, I must’ve woken her up,” I say.

Jack shakes his head, already moving toward his daughter’s cry. “It’s not you.” He scoops up Harper while fixing me with a concerned look. “She’s a light sleeper.” He gently rockshis daughter, trying to soothe her back to sleep, but his eyes are attentive, ready to dive into deeper waters with me.

Taking a breath, I let the decision solidify in my mind. “I’m going to Bogotá.”

“Hux…” Jack’s voice trails off, a mix of caution and understanding coloring his tone.

I press on, fueled by a resolve that feels both terrifying and right. “I can’t let Valentina down again.”

“Who’s Rodolfo?” Jack’s brow furrows slightly, trying to piece together the urgency.

“Her son,” I reply.

Jack shifts Harper to his other shoulder, his gaze steady on me. “Look, if you want to move forward, do it for him and for yourself, not for Valentina,” he advises, his voice firm yet supportive.

Something shifts in me, realizing how much I’ve been dwelling in the past. It doesn’t take long for me to see the truth in his words. “I’m going to talk to Sam and Mark, and explain everything,” I say, determined not to undermine the trust I’ve built at Red Mark.

“Sensible, Hux.” Jack’s expression mellows. “How about Savannah?”

A smile tugs at my lips. This crisis, as dire as it is, clarifies everything. It’s ironic. This whole mess… it’s made things crystal clear. It’s not about Valentina anymore. It’s about fulfilling my purpose—saving a child. And in the end, I want Savannah by my side. She needs to know everything.

“Of course, I’m going to talk to her,” I reply, the plan forming more solidly. “But first, I need to clear this with one more person.”

Jack nods, understanding my path and the sequence it must take. As he tenderly pats Harper’s back, I retreat.

I dialthe number I swore I’d erased from memory. Robert D’Souza, the CIA veteran, the one responsible for the scar that never lets me forget. I imagine him, probably lounging in his D.C. home, a cigar in hand, thinking he’s left his past behind.

When he hears my voice, I can almost hear the shock through the silence. “D’Souza, we have an urgent situation. A boy is in danger. I need the CIA to move him to the embassy now.”

There’s a hesitation before he responds, his voice tight. “Mr. Cometti, I wish I could help, but I’m no longer with the agency.”

I cut him off sharply, “I know. But your retirement doesn’t erase the contacts you still hold at Langley. You can make this happen.”

He scoffs. “I’m a retired agent. I’ve left that life behind.”

“Listen.” My tone sharpens. “This is a straightforward operation. Just escort a boy to the U.S. Embassy in Bogotá. Fifteen minutes, in and out.”

D’Souza’s voice carries a note of caution. “You should know that small ops can escalate out of nowhere.”

I retort sharply, “Just like your ‘peaceful’ retirement might escalate if certain truths come to light,” I deliver my words with a steely edge. “Remember, D’Souza, I can make your life very uncomfortable. I’m no longer with the Navy, and I’m not bound by their rules anymore.”

“Oh yeah?” he counters, skepticism threading his tone. “You stir up this case, it’s not just you who’ll suffer. Your former comrades will pay the price, too.”

“They have nothing to hide. We executed our mission by the book. It was the CIA that dropped the ball. My chief wascourt-martialed because of your failures. He’d only be too happy to assist a friend in need,” I shoot back.

There’s a pause on the line, then D’Souza speaks again, his tone mingling defeat with a trace of arrogance. “You know the CIA has its ways of keeping secrets buried. What can I say? I’m untouchable.”

What a cocky fucker! It’s a good thing the asshole isn’t here in front of me, or I might forget my discipline.

“Everything comes to light eventually, and no one is untouchable forever,” I emphasize, sending him a link to a news article about the discovery of a woman’s remains—only half of her body found. His silence tells me he’s reading.

I continue, using every bit of leverage I have. “You have blood on your hands, D’Souza. That little boy Enzo died in that operation, and Valentina Rojas… don’t think I don’t know about her.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end. “What do you want, Huxley?”

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