Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
A mural painted on the side of a building.
A city I’ll never know. A country I will never return to.
But not one without beauty.
By the time we reach the airport, my eyes are dry again.
Or maybe just empty.
The ambassador escorts me through the process with a calm efficiency that makes everything feel strangely unreal. Private aviation removes so much of the chaos I expected. There are still people, checks, formalities, but Vinnie has clearly done what Vinnie does. He has minimized every obstacle between me and home.
The plane waits.
It’s small compared to a commercial jet, but impossibly sleek and private and safe-looking.
Safe.
The ambassador looks at me. “Are you all right?”
No.
“Yes.”
He nods. “Your family will meet you at the airport in Austin.”
I inhale.
Texas.
Home.
“Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
“I’m very glad we could help.”
I board the plane.
A flight attendant greets me. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Coffee? Tea? Wine? Something stronger?”
Something stronger.
God, yes.
Something to knock the edges off. Something to quiet the mess in my head. Something to help me stop seeing Cruz’s face when I told him I didn’t see a future for us.
But no.
I need my mind clear.
I need to remember everything.
Even what hurts.
“Just a bottle of water, please.”
“Of course.”
I sit near a window.
The flight attendant brings the water. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Please let me know if you need anything else.”
I nod. “Thank you. I will.”
Then I’m alone again.
Alone in a lush leather seat with a bottle of water I can barely open because my hands are shaking.
The plane begins to move.
Slow at first.
Then fast.
We rise.
I look out the window.
Bogotá stretches beyond the glass.
Parts of it are beautiful.
I press my fingers to the window.
Below me, the city begins to shrink.
I tell myself this is freedom.
I tell myself I’m lucky.
I tell myself I’m going home to the people who love me, and that’s the only thing that matters.
I tell myself Cruz made his choices, and I made mine.
I tell myself what happened between us was not love.
It was fear.
Intensity.
Proximity.
A trauma bond.
The plane climbs higher.
Clouds streak past the window.
And I gulp down a lump in my throat.
I will never return to Colombia. Not ever.
And I sure as hell will never see Cruz Moreno again.
The thought should bring relief.
Instead…
It breaks my heart.
40
CRUZ
I drive like demons are chasing me, because they literally are. They may wear tailored suits instead of horns and talons, but they’re demons for sure.
I don’t have time.
Not for grief.
Not for regret.
Not for the image of Señora Valentina lying in her own foyer.
Not for the memory of Robin’s face when I told her what I did to Eagle.
Not even for the burn of her final kiss.
My jaw throbs. My throat aches where Zabala tried to crush it. My knuckles are split open again.
None of it matters.
Move.
Get out before Vega closes the roads.
Get out before Adriana wakes.
Get out before some travel official gets a call, before my fake passport becomes useless.
I reach the airport with my heart pounding and my dirty shirt sticking to my back.
The stolen car barely stops before I’m out of it. I don’t look back. I don’t lock it. I don’t care who finds it, who steals it next, who writes a ticket for it because I parked right on the curb.
Inside, the airport is bright and loud. People everywhere. Families with luggage. Businessmen staring at phones. Children crying.
Announcements echo overhead in Spanish and English.
Normal life.
Normal life, but not for me.
I force myself forward. Which ticket counter do I choose? An American carrier would be best, because that’s where I want to go. I head toward the international carriers, look at departure boards.
I need the first flight out of the country.
Preferably to the U.S.
Preferably before Vega calls in some favor at the airport.
I step into the shortest line, which isn’t short enough. A man in front of me argues about baggage weight. A woman digs through her purse for documents.
For the love of God, move.
Finally, I reach the counter.
The agent looks up at me with an exhausted smile.
“Good morning,” she says in Spanish. “Where are you traveling?”
“First available flight out of the country,” I say.
She lifts her brows.
“Preferably to the United States.”
“Do you have a destination?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She cocks her head.
I lower my voice. “I have family matters. I need to leave as soon as possible.”
“Passport?”
I reach into my pocket, my hands clammy. Will the fake passport work? Or did Zabala screw me over from the grave?
I hand it over.
The agent opens it. Looks at the photo. Looks at me. Looks back at the passport.
My face is bruised. My jaw swollen. I don’t look like a man who’s casually getting out of town. At least I had the foresight to wash the blood off me.
“Rough morning,” I say.
She flicks her gaze to my jaw. “Clearly.”
She examines the passport again.
The seconds stretch.
Finally she nods and hands it back to me. “Let me see what I can do.”