Page 162 of Forbidden Fate

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?”