37. Huxley
37
HUXLEY
I can’t shake the unnerving sensation of eyes on me. I decide to ditch the plan of taking a taxi to the airport. I need the reins firmly in my hands today.
A discreetly arranged rental car waits for us in a secluded spot of a parking lot, deliberately chosen for its proximity yet clear risks from our hotel. With only a travel bag and Rodolfo’s small hand in mine, we make our quiet escape through the back exit.
A bite of chill seeps through, but the rain still persists. There is no mistaking the Andes-like quality of the air.
“Are we okay?” Rodolfo’s voice is small, tinged with a fear he’s come to know too well from a lifetime of hiding and fleeing. Yet, there’s a spark of defiance in his gaze. Perhaps the kid is braver than I’ve given him credit for.
“We’ll be fine. Just stick by me,” I instruct quietly, lowering the umbrella as the wind gains strength. “Walk like we’re just going back from dinner.”
“But it is late.”
We’re catching a midnight flight, and this isn’t exactly a kid-friendly hour. “Yeah. I know. But sometimes people do have late dinners.”
As we persevere, the rain starts to fall sideways. “I can’t see!” he grumbles while I urge him to quicken our pace.
“Don’t look around too much, and keep quiet, okay?”
This mission isn’t like the textbook operations back at Red Mark. No backup is coming. No team waits in the wings for his safe retrieval. Just us, threading our way through the treacherous streets of Bogotá. He’s no longer a child to save. He’s an essential, though unintentional, partner in this fraught escape.
Rodolfo starts hop-walking, splashing in the puddles as if he were at a playground.
“Act normal, please,” I nudge him.
He pauses, a lightbulb going off in his head. “Kids eat candy. I need candy to look normal,” Rodolfo whispers, thinking he’s come up with a perfect plan. It almost makes me chuckle, even with the nerves.
“Too much candy rots the teeth, buddy,” I reply, half-amused, half-exasperated by his cheekiness. Rodolfo will definitely keep Savannah and me on our toes.
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 follow but 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 from Home 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.”
“No more bad guys?”
“No. No more. You’ll be safe with me and Savannah.”
Before I can click the buckle, he frees himself and leaps from his seat, throwing his arms around me in the biggest hug he can muster. “Thank you, Papa Huxley,” he whispers, full of sincerity.
I reciprocate his embrace—bigger, fiercer—kissing the crown of his head, trying fucking hard not to cry in front of everyone. But they don’t know a thing. Rodolfo’s hug isn’t merely a gesture of appreciation. It’s a connection, an affirmation that after years of grief, anger, and ‘angry wishes,’ today I’ve done something right.
And he called me Papa…
As I bid farewell to the country, the word ignites a sense of both loss and rediscovery. I pause, allowing my thoughts to drift back to Operation Jaguar Strike, perhaps for one last time.
“You’re welcome, champ,” I say, lifting him up and settling him on his seat as the flight attendants are preparing for departure.
I exhale a relieved breath. Here’s Rodolfo now, perched on the brink of a new beginning in a new land. No matter where life takes us, I will always strive to be the best father I can be for him.