40. Cruz
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 Senora 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.”
Relief sweeps through me, though I’m careful not to let it show while she taps the keyboard.
I look around casually. Nothing looks suspicious. At least not yet.
“There are several flights to the United States leaving within the next two hours,” she says.
I lean forward.
“Direct?”
“Some direct, yes.” She studies the screen. “Atlanta. Tampa. Miami. New York. Houston.”
Houston.
That’s in Texas.
Where Robin is from. Where the Bellamy Ranch is. It’s not Austin, where I was before, and Texas is huge, but it’s close enough.
Except…Robin said it clearly.
We have no future. She won’t help me with her family’s money.
She has no reason to want me near her. I hurt her brother. I helped abduct her. I’m tangled in the very danger she’s trying to escape.
If I go to Houston, I’m not honoring what she asked.
I could choose Atlanta. Disappear into some city where no one knows me. Find a way to ask for asylum. Trade information. Start over as much as a man like me can start over.
I could go anywhere.
But Adriana’s voice slides back into my mind.
If Vega can’t have you, he’ll get to the United States and take Robin Bellamy for himself.
Fuck.
Vega knows Texas.
He knows the Bellamys.
He knows their history better than Robin does. Better than I do, maybe.
And I know him.
That may be the only thing I still have that’s worth anything.
I know how Vega thinks. How he waits. How he punishes people through what they love. If he decides Robin is the way to hurt me, or punish her family, or reclaim whatever secret binds him to the Bellamys, he will take advantage.
And I won’t be hiding in Atlanta while he does.
“Houston,” I say.
The agent looks up. “Houston?”
“Yes.”
“That flight leaves soon.”
“How soon?”
“Less than an hour. There are only two seats left.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Baggage?”
“Carry-on only.”
“One way?”
“Yes.”
“Payment?”
“Cash.”
She eyes me. One-way tickets purchased in cash with a bruised face and no luggage are a big red flag. I know that.
I also know men get through borders every day looking worse than I do. Emergencies happen. Family members die. Lovers leave. People run to things and from things all the time.
She processes the ticket, prints the boarding pass, and slides it toward me. “Gate information is there. You need to hurry.”
“I will.”
“You’ll still need to clear immigration and security.”
“I know.”
She meets my gaze, her eyes kind. “Good luck.”
The words nearly make me laugh. “Thank you.”
I take the passport and boarding pass and walk away fast enough to move, not fast enough to run.
Not yet.
Security goes quickly, thank God. No one looks twice at my battered face.
Immigration is next. The line is shorter than I expected and still feels endless.
A child in front of me asks his mother for candy. A man behind me coughs every few seconds. Someone’s phone rings.
I stare ahead.
The officer calls me forward.
I hand over the passport.
He opens it.
Looks at me.
Looks at the passport.
Back at me again. “Purpose of travel?”
“Personal. Family emergency.”
“How long will you be in the United States?”
“I’m not sure.”
The officer flips through the passport.
I keep breathing.
In.
Out.
The photo is good. Zabala may have been a bastard, but he knew quality when his own freedom might one day depend on similar documents.
The officer scans it. Something on the screen loads.
My heart beats once.
Twice.
Three times.
“You should know how long you plan to stay.”
“Normally I would, but with the family stuff…”
He nods and hands me the passport. “Good to go.”
I take the passport before he can change his mind. “Gracias.”
“Next.”
I walk.
My flight is boarding soon.
Now I run.
Not a full sprint at first.
Then yes.
A full sprint.
People blur around me. Someone curses when I cut too close. An announcement echoes overhead.
“Final call for Houston.”
Houston.
My gate.
I run harder.
The gate comes into view just as the last cluster of passengers disappears down the jet bridge.
A woman at the desk reaches for the door.
“Wait,” I call.
She looks up.
I hold out the boarding pass.
“Please.”
She scans it. The machine beeps. For one terrible second, she frowns. Then the light changes.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I breathe a long sigh of relief as I walk through the jetway and board the plane.
I find my seat near the back.
Middle seat.
Of course.
A man by the window barely glances at me. A woman on the aisle shifts her purse with irritation as I squeeze in.
I sit, clasp my seatbelt.
Only then do I realize my hands are shaking.
I made it.
Not out.
Not safe.
Never safe.
But on the plane.
The door closes.
The cabin prepares.
Announcements begin.
English first. Then Spanish.
The plane begins to move.
Slow.
Then faster.
I dig my fingers into the arm rests.
We rise, and for a moment, my stomach drops.
I got out.
Before Vega could ground the plane. Before Adriana could wake up and make calls. Before whatever net they cast could close around me.
The plane climbs.
The woman beside me asks the flight attendant for water.
The man by the window opens a magazine.
Ordinary people doing ordinary things while I sit between them with a dead man’s blood under my skin and a fake passport in my pocket.
I’m coming, Robin.
Wait for me.