33. Huxley
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 moment of 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, but the 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.
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 rocks his 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 dial the 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 was court-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?”
“Just Rodolfo Rojas,” I state firmly. “Ensure he’s safe. And yes, check if his U.S. passport is still valid.”
D’Souza’s voice is colder, more calculating now. “I’ll handle it. Where is he?”
I give him the details, swift and precise. “Codeword: Rodeo Rod.”
“Where the hell did that come from?”
I continue, “And one more thing. I’m flying to Bogotá tomorrow. I’ll collect him from the embassy. Make sure the paperwork names me as his official guardian.”
“Understood. He’ll be your responsibility,” D’Souza concedes.
“And never forget, his mother was a hero to your agency. It’s time you remember that,” I conclude, hanging up just as I pull up to the Mitchell’s residence .
I rap sharply on the door, bracing myself for the confrontation. The door swings open, and there stands Al Mitchell, his gaze sharp as flint. He sizes me up with a look that could curdle milk, and I’m reminded of the first time I encountered him, rifle in hand, authority personified, as he chased off an unwelcome visitor from his property.
“Al, please. I don’t have much time?—”
“Hell you don’t!” His voice booms, his presence just as formidable without the rifle.
“I need to see Savannah,” I press, knowing full well the kind of protective barrier he represents.
“Can’t do, Huxley,” he bars the doorway, his resolve as solid as the oak door behind him. “No one’s gonna hurt my Saltamontes and walk away without answering to me!”
I exhale, my resolve hardening. “Look, I know I messed up. I hurt her. But I’m here to make things right.”
Al’s stance doesn’t waver. He’s the immovable object to my unstoppable force. “Then you best turn yourself around before I make you.”
“Al, Savannah can hold her own. If she wants me gone, she’ll tell me herself.” Realizing a frontal approach won’t sway him, I step back, giving space, and call out with all the breath in my lungs. “Savannah!”
“She ain’t here!” Al’s reply is sharp, a mix of defiance and fatigue from the standoffs.
I pause, urgency spilling out of my throat. “Where is she, Al? I really need to talk to her.” My voice dips low, hoping for a sliver of cooperation.
Al sizes me up, his gaze piercing. After a long moment, he sighs, the rigid lines of his face relaxing. “She’s down at the stable, tending to Misty.”
Grateful for the lead, I nod slightly. “Thank you, Al. I’ll head that way. ”
When I first met Savannah, my wish was for the wreckage of my existence to be reclaimed and renewed. And she did, in her own way. But today, I’m ready to take it a step further, to break myself open completely—disentangling each twisted fragment to reveal their true form, and presenting every piece to her—honest, raw, and filled with purpose.