Page 97 of Her Redeemed Protector

Suddenly, his body stiffens. “I think that’s a bad guy,” he murmurs, careful not to point or look.

My alertness heightens. “How do you know?”

“Mama said bad guys stand with one hand in their pocket and one hand behind their back,” he explains quietly, his eyes locked forward.

I scan the area carefully, believing in his instincts. We take a detour around the block to shake off any followers. “That’s pretty clever,” I acknowledge as I spot our rental car across the street.

“There’s our car, Rodolfo. Let’s make a quick, quiet dash for it now,” I whisper, tightening my hold on his skinny hand as we hurry toward the parking lot.

We slip into the parked car unnoticed. As I buckle Rodolfo into the back seat and jump into the driver’s seat, my mind races with all the possible scenarios that could unfold. I start the engine and glance through the rearview mirror. It’s clear for now, but in Bogotá, safety is a fleeting luxury.

I pull out of the parking space, and the tension in my shoulders mounts. The cartel’s network is vast and vigilant. They have eyes that see far and wide, ears that hear even the softest whispers. There’s no doubt in my mind they’re aware of our intent to reach the airport.

I merge into traffic. The city’s not as frantic as during the day, but this is when the trucks come out to play, starting their long-haul journeys. My hands tighten on the wheel as I navigate the rain-beaten streets. At first, everything seems normal, just another vehicle among many. But then, beams of headlights appear in my rearview mirror, passing a truck aggressively. If my eyes aren’t failing me, it’s a black Jeep. If it were daylight, it’d look as shiny as granite.

With Rodolfo securely strapped in, I press harder on the gas pedal, the engine groaning in response. The Jeep mirrors my movements, closing in fast. I take a sharp right, tires barely gripping the drenched asphalt, slipping down narrower streets, hoping to lose our tail in the maze of Bogotá’s heart.

I glance back at Rodolfo, who grips the edge of his seat with wide eyes. “Hold on tight,” I tell him, trying to mask the concern in my voice. “We’re smarter than them,” I reassure him, even as my mind races for a solution. In these narrow streets lined with shut market stalls but still cluttered with obstacles, I plot our next move.

Turning down an even narrower street, I push the car as fast as it will go, sheets of water blurring the windshield despite the wipers’ frantic efforts. The Jeep attempts to followbut gets momentarily caught behind a slow-turning van. Seizing the opportunity, I make another turn.

We burst out of the alley and onto a wider road, the sudden change in space disorienting for a split second. But I floor the accelerator, the small car engine’s roar almost drowned out by the storm.

We finally pull up to the airport. My heart is lodged in my throat, but thankfully, we’re both intact.

“Come on, buddy!” I hustle Rodolfo along, who seems struck by the grandeur of the airport, his legs wobbling beneath him like he’s just disembarked a ship.

We’re behind schedule, and our adversaries might be hot on our heels. Thankfully, the first-class counter proves to be our salvation. We breeze through check-in, and soon, we’re walking down the jet bridge to our plane. The boy can’t stop marveling at what’s around him.

“You’re a total badass!” Rodolfo exclaims with a victorious fist pump as he sprawls across a first-class seat that could easily fit three of him. The flight attendants blink in surprise but offer us welcoming smiles.

“Hey, watch the language, champ. Where did you learn that word, anyway? Not fromHome Alone, surely,” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Cowboy movie. Abuela said you’re a cowboy, so I have to know,” he says innocently.

His grandmother, of course. I can’t help but chuckle, thinking about the colorful characters influencing his young life.

“Well, we’re setting some new rules when we get to America, okay? We need to be polite,” I tell him, trying to sound stern but feeling the corners of my mouth twitch.

“Okay.” His voice dipped in mischief, but his smile is all sweetness. He fidgets with the seatbelt buckle. “What’s this?”

“It keeps you safe in your seat. When the plane hits bad weather, you won’t bounce around.”

“Bounce? That sounds fun,” he says, eyes wide as he scans the cabin and other passengers. His legs swing back and forth from the seat, full of restless energy.

I smile, glad he’s the adventurous type, embracing his first flight with such excitement.

He continues fiddling with the seatbelt. “So, I cannot move after I put this on?”

“You can, but when you’re seated, it’s best to wear it.”

“Okay. I don’t know how.”

“I’ll help you.”

He yawns, looking at me with tired eyes. “So, I’m safe now?”

“You are.”

---