Page 27 of Gabriel
“Exactly.”
Gabriel
The moment Amara set foot on Colombian soil, my phone lit up.
One quiet ping. That was all it took.
She had vanished in Paris alongside Elira, but I’d cast a wide net, weaving digital threads across continents and setting up algorithms to track her. Facial recognition from a shuttered customs checkpoint outside Buenaventura had finally tripped the alert. Too quiet to be intercepted by anyone else. Loud enough for me.
A second later, Luis called and I answered the phone.
“Did you see it?” he asked without preamble.
“I did.”
“I’m about an hour out. Want me to intercept?”
“No,” I said, cutting him off with a tone sharp enough to slice through his worry. “I’m already here. I’ll follow her myself.”
“Alright. Be careful.”
The line went dead.
I left a half-smoked cigar curling wisps of blue gray into the warm air and two untouched glasses of twenty-year rum on the table, signaling the abrupt end to a meeting with one of my most volatile distributors. His face had contorted with confusionwhen I stood, phone in hand, and walked away without explanation. I didn’t owe him one. Not when Amara was on my territory.
Amara was a woman wrapped in strength and fire with a legacy that royalty would be envious of. But none of it mattered to me. The only thing that fascinated me was the woman underneath it all, with deepest blue eyes and full, soft lips that tempted me.
And now she was in Colombia.
My home.
I pulled up the interface synced to my local surveillance net. My men had already triangulated her position. A dusty road on the fringe ofla junglanear the Valle del Cauca. Someone had dropped her off at the edge of the jungle and she was now on foot heading inland.
She’d been clever bypassing checkpoints, likely rotating SIMs and using false documentation when docking her yacht. But clever wasn’t enough. Not here. Everything that happened on this territory got reported back to me, including the visitors that were trying to stay under the radar.
I started the Jeep, the engine growling to life beneath me, and followed her pin along the winding dirt roads that snaked through the underbrush. The scent of loam and petrol soaked into my collar. A storm was crawling across the mountains and the wet season clung to everything.
Ten minutes later, I watched her dot disappear from the road and veer into the forest.
The girl must’ve ditched her bag before crossing the tree line.
My phone buzzed again.
Luis: Don’t touch that backpack. Could be rigged.
Luis: I should be there, but I know you want her all to yourself.
Me: I’m not trying to marry her, Luis. I just want to know why the hell she’s here.
Luis: Maybe she missed your pretty face. Beauty aside, don’t touch the pack. Could be a bomb.
Me: I’m not an idiot.
Luis: You’re a man. That’s dangerously close.
Me: And what does that make you? Keep texting and I’ll leave you in a shipping container with a bag of expired plantains.
Luis: Generous.
