Page 90 of Her Redeemed Protector

“We’ll do this together,” I assert.

He nods, a grin tugging at his lips. “I don’t mean to be an ungrateful student, but I think I’m ready to graduate from those lessons. This is the real deal. You’ve helped me reconcile with my past. I don’t have to hold back anymore, afraid I might hurt you.”

“Every mentor eventually lets go of their student,” I reply. “Even if the student is a slow learner.”

His response is a kiss, a release of all the tension andburden he’s been carrying. We share a moment filled with sobs of joy, our embrace firmer than ever.

He gives me a lopsided smile. “Just a heads up, he’s quite a handful. Grew up in hiding, so not many friends.”

I tap him on the chest. “We won’t be doing this alone, Hux. We’ll raise him to be a good man, just like you,” I say. “And my dad—oh, boy, he’s got zero tolerance for mischief.”

He chuckles, visibly relieved. “Thank you.”

Leaning in, I lower my voice to a raspy whisper, “And if you’re looking way into the future, maybe Rodolfo will have some siblings to keep him on his toes?” I trace a finger just above his belt buckle.

His smile widens, eyes sparkling with naughty specks. “I’ve been thinking about that for a while now, Sav.”

After another fleeting kiss, my heart swells with a mix of joy and apprehension. He’s about to embark on a dangerous mission, yet here we are, dreaming of our future, filled with love, laughter, and the promise of a bustling, lively home.

“So, brace yourself, Hux,” I rib, “you might come home to more than you bargained for!”

He laughs, the sound rich and full of hope. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

35

HUXLEY

Living in Helena means I’m accustomed to the protracted nature of travel, but today’s journey feels particularly arduous. After enduring a layover in Washington, D.C., I’m now en route to Bogota.

Just as I’m about to board the plane, my phone vibrates with an incoming call that pins me to the spot. It’s D’Souza on the line, his low voice in contrast to the chaos of the airport. He confirms that Rodolfo is safe at the embassy, now under the watchful eye of the ambassador’s secretary.

I clutch the phone a bit tighter. It’s a relief, but until the boy is safe on US soil, my work isn’t done. I thank D’Souza and stress that avoiding any further complications is my top priority. As long as Rodolfo is secure, I can focus on the next steps without looking over my shoulder too much.

The flight itself is a paradox, passing both quickly and agonizingly slowly. My mind whirls through endless scenarios, trying to determine the most probable outcome. In an attempt to distract myself, I flip through a magazine, but the words blur into meaningless shapes. My real focus is on what awaits in Bogota.

Upon landing, the familiar Andean rain pours as if saying welcome back. I resist the urge to head directly to the embassy. Instead, I opt to assess the situation with a cautious eye, vigilant for any hint that the cartel or their proxies might be aware of my movements.

The hustle and bustle of the city streets churn around me. My SEAL comrades and I had started our operation right here in these teeming streets before we descended into the depths of a living nightmare.

As the taxi meanders through the rain-soaked terrain, everything appears unchanged—buses and cars zipping past, neon signs flickering above crowded sidewalks, murals and graffiti decorating the walls.

My arrival at the hotel is uneventful, and though I feel a pang of paranoia, there’s no sign I’m being followed. Still, a familiar pressure mounts on my shoulders, mimicking the ghostly sensation of a rucksack strapped to my back, heavy with gear. It’s an odd juxtaposition, my civilian clothes and the invisible burden of a sailor’s load.

Once in the safety of my hotel room, I change into a casual shirt, my ballistic vest underneath. I put on my loose jeans. Not my usual attire, but it’s necessary to blend in. The casual clothes feel like a thin disguise as I make my way to the embassy. The familiar grip of tension tightens around my chest.

At the embassy gates, the guards scan me. They question me about my gun and survival knife, but once they learn I’m invited by the CIA, they wave me in.

“Mr. Cometti,” a lady greets me. “I’m Alice, assistant to the ambassador.”

“Nice to meet you, Alice. Call me Huxley,” I say, barely aware of the pristine hallways and the murmur of conversationsas I make my way to the back of the embassy. “Is Rodolfo okay?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” she assures me.

There, among the homely clatter of dishes and the smell of cocoa, sits Rodolfo. His figure, though small, stands out against the mundane backdrop. He’s dressed in nondescript clothes, sipping milk, and nibbling on bread. Seeing him in such a simple, human moment, so far removed from the peril we both know too well, makes my heart race, caught between relief and the lingering threads of uncertainty that refuse to dissipate.

“Huxley!” Rodolfo spots me immediately and dashes over, hands sticky, face streaked with the remnants of a milk mustache. He launches into my arms, leaving sugary fingerprints on my jacket.

I chuckle and hoist him up. “Hey, champ!” My heart balloons a size, and I’m completely wrapped around his tiny fingers. Knowing Savannah is with me all the way just amplifies the joy.

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