Chapter 53: I Want to Be Airborne Before Sunset

Hours Later, A Continent Away— Carlos’s POV...

Carlos stood motionless, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the topmost penthouse suite of the five-star Eko Hotel. Lagos glowed beneath him— alive, reckless, loud. The city pulsed with horns, lights, and life. But none of that could drown out the storm churning inside him.

One hand was tucked in his pocket, the other pressed against the cool glass.

He exhaled slowly, the breath dragging out in a long, tired sigh. Then, as if tasting something bitter on his tongue, he inhaled deeply.

“You’re close, Cynthia,” he muttered. His voice was low, almost inaudible. “I can feel it. You’re here… somewhere. You can’t hide forever.”

The silence lingered— until the soft sound of footsteps interrupted it. Carlos didn’t turn. His eyes were still locked on the chaos of Lagos below.

A man stopped a few feet behind him. His posture was stiff. Hesitant. One of his security heads— brown-skinned, clean-shaven, and visibly uneasy.

“Sir…” the man began, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I bring... bad news.”

Carlos didn’t move. He simply raised an eyebrow. “Spit it out. You know I don’t like suspense.”

The man cleared his throat. “The FBI. They… raided the estate. Forcefully. They took Madam Megan, sir.”

Carlos’s spine straightened. His head turned sharply, his expression unreadable. “What did you just say?”

“She’s in custody, sir. With the feds.”

A pause.

Carlos stepped away from the window like a man who had been slapped across the face. His gaze locked onto the agent, demanding answers. “How the hell did that even happen?”

“They came in strong. Showed a warrant. Claimed she confessed to the murder of Emily on camera. Our men… stood ground. Refused. It escalated.”

“To what?” Carlos barked. His voice was sharp, slicing through the air like a whip.

“To gunfire,” the agent said, his voice clipped. “A full shootout.”

Carlos’s jaw clenched.

“We took down eighteen of their men. But…” The agent hesitated. “We lost twenty-six, sir.”

Silence.

Carlos’s face turned pale. His mouth opened but no sound came out. His eyes widened, stunned. “You’re telling me… that eighteen federal agents died in my house… and no one told me until now?”

“It happened shortly after we landed, sir,” the agent said cautiously. “We ourselves are just knowin—”

Carlos’s voice exploded.

“Why am I only hearing this now?! This is terrible! This is catastrophic! The feds? DEAD feds?!”

He ran both hands through his hair, gripping it so tightly it looked like he might rip it from his skull.

“Fuck!” he shouted, spinning around and storming across the room. His footsteps thudded against the marble. “Can this get any worse?!”

Reaching the lavish king-size bed in the center of the opulent suite, Carlos collapsed backward onto the mattress. He lay still, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling above, before eventually closing them. Chandeliers glimmered above him, mocking his unraveling thoughts.

“Fuck,” he whispered again. “This is very bad.”

The agent stood at the edge of the bed, not daring to move.

“We’ll ride the storm, sir,” the agent said gently. “This is just a minor setback. You’ve been through worse. You’ll rise again.”

Carlos’s eyes popped open. His head snapped toward the man.

“What?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “What did you just call this?”

The agent blinked. “Sir, I only meant—”

“Minor?” Carlos said with a bitter laugh. “Dead federal agents. My wife arrested. My child inside her. And you think this is minor?”

The laugh turned cold and dry.

“Get out.”

The man didn’t argue. He nodded silently and exited the room.

Alone, Carlos turned his gaze back up to the gold-plated ceiling. His chest rose and fell slowly. His face— usually carved in stone— softened. And for the first time in a long time, he looked… lost.

“She’s carrying my child,” he whispered. “I can’t let them take her away.”

He shut his eyes again, reaching for clarity in the shadows of his thoughts. The silence stretched.

“Do I stay here… finish with my search for Cynthia?” he whispered, brows furrowed. “Or do I go back… and try to salvage what’s left?”

He rubbed his temple, voice shaky. “I just need my child from her. That’s all.”

Silence again.

Then, a deep exhale. His fingers curled into a fist on the mattress.

“I guess… I have no choice,” he murmured. “I’ll go back. Handle this mess. Try to pull what I can from this wreck.”

He nodded to himself, barely a whisper: “I’ll leave the search to my men for now. I’ll be back for you, Cynthia. But first… I need to clean my house.”

With that decision made, Carlos’s body relaxed. His eyelids fluttered shut again. Exhaustion took him, and in moments, sleep pulled him under.

Four Hours Later

Carlos woke abruptly.

His eyes snapped open. No dream. Just fire— still burning in his chest.

He rose from the bed in one swift motion and crossed the suite. He didn’t bother with shoes. He moved barefoot through the marble-floored hallway until he reached the wing where his men were stationed.

He rapped twice on the heavy door, then pushed it open.

Four men looked up from their weapons and screens. They straightened at once.

“Get ready,” Carlos said firmly. “We’re flying back to the U.S.”

One of the men stood. “Sir, what about the search for Cynthia?”

Carlos didn’t flinch.

“The team assigned to that will continue their work,” he replied. “We have bigger problems. My priority now is Megan. I need to salvage what I can. Everything else waits.”

“Understood, sir,” they responded in unison.

Carlos turned to the man closest to the comms table. “Make sure the jet is ready. Two hours. I want to be airborne before sunset.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word, Carlos turned and walked out, his silhouette disappearing into the hallway— his mind already 7,000 miles away.

Back in America.

Where everything he built was threatening to come undone.