Stealing Beauty (Stolen 1)

We docked at Puerto Obaldía within less than an hour. The village was even smaller than Capurganá and far more dilapidated. A few cheery pastel buildings stood out among the white-washed or natural wood shacks.

Two armed police officers waited for us at the dock.

“Let’s see what’s in those bags,” one of the officers said, gesturing at Adrián’s and Mateo’s packs.

Anxiety tightened my gut. We were carrying much more than simple clothes and provisions.

Adrián didn’t appear at all concerned as he handed over his backpack. The officer barely glanced at our clothing before zipping it back up. Mateo opened his bag, drawing out a fat roll of dollars. He handed it to the man with a smile.

“We’re on our way to San Blas,” Mateo explained, his tone genial but his gaze cool. “We wanted to make sure we had all the resources we need for the journey, so we didn’t pack light.”

The officer pocketed the cash with a nod. He didn’t look in Mateo’s bag, where I knew the guns were hidden, along with a lot more money.

“You’ll need to check in with border security before you sail,” the policeman said, waving at a gray, derelict building behind him. “Enjoy San Blas.”

Mateo tipped his head in a brief show of gratitude, and Adrián began walking in the direction of the customs building, drawing me along at his side with his arm around my waist.

Clarity began to settle over me, and my capacity for rational thought returned as we approached border security.

I could scream. I could beg for help, now that I was in Panama.

But that would mean telling them that my U.S. passport was a fake. We would all be arrested. Our true identities would be found out.

And I would be shipped back to Hugo.

Better to wait it out and continue on this insane journey with Adrián. My horrific incident in the jungle had proven that this part of the world was far too dangerous for me to try to travel on my own. So, I’d stay with Adrián and Mateo for a while longer. I might even go all the way to America with them, although I knew it would be more difficult to escape Adrián once I was in his home, where he’d hold all the power.

All I could do was keep my mouth shut and wait for my best opportunity to get to Chicago and my brothers.

This was not that opportunity.

“Behave,” Adrián warned in an undertone as we entered the customs building.

Mateo already had our false passports in hand, ready to prove our fake identities.

The border patrol agent on the other side of the desk scowled at us as we approached, his doughy face pinching with disdain. Then, he spotted the navy blue of our American passports, and his beady eyes narrowed.

He reached for them when Mateo set them down on the counter. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“California,” Adrián responded, his Colombian accent milder than I’d ever heard it. He spoke in Spanish, but he sounded as though he’d grown up in America. “We came to Bogotá to visit family, and now, we’re traveling to San Blas for vacation.”

The officer eyed him, then Mateo, then me. He glanced at our passports again. “You’re all related?”

“We’re brothers.” Adrián clapped Mateo on the back. “First generation Colombian-American. Our uncle still lives in Bogotá, and we visit him often.” He looked down at me. “That’s where I met my wife. She moved to the States with me when we got married. She was just granted citizenship last year.” He beamed at me, as though he was proud and pleased.

I forced myself to return his smile. I’d practiced my beatific grin often enough over the last decade. The fake expression of joy came easily to me.

“How wonderful for you,” the man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I jolted a little as he slammed the stamps down on our passports with more force than necessary, but I kept my smile carefully in place.

Mateo took our documents back from the officer and slipped them into his pack. Adrián steered me away from the unpleasant man, guiding me out of the building and back toward the dock.

“Let’s get a boat to San Blas,” he told Mateo. “Did you see anything decent when we docked?”

“There was a small sailing yacht moored a few yards down from us,” Mateo replied. “It looked big enough for eight, but I’m sure we could persuade the captain to take on just the three of us.”

“If he doesn’t already have fucking travel blogger passengers,” Adrián grumbled.

As it turned out, there weren’t any travel bloggers in the vicinity. More cash appeared from Mateo’s pack, and the captain agreed to sail directly to the island of El Porvenir, where we intended to catch a flight into Panama City.

“I was supposed to meet my passengers here at Puerto Obaldía,” the captain—Luis—informed us. “But they haven’t arrived yet.” He made an obvious show of checking his watch as he tucked the dollars into his pocket. “It seems they’re too late to catch this sailing.” He grinned at us. “Welcome aboard.”