The Guardian by Robbie Cheuvront and Erik Reed

I’ll be in the next room if you need anything. Don’t stay up too late. We are getting up at six o’clock.”
    “Six o’clock! What’s the hurry? We just got here.”
    “Six o’clock, Anna,” Father Vin said matter-of-factly. He held up a street map of the city. “It says here that our address is indeed St. Anna’s. They have a Mass starting at seven thirty. We need to be there and talk to the parish priest before then. Maybe he can help us. We can stay for Mass if you like.”
    “Jeez!” Anna put down her fork. “I guess we’d better get some sleep then, huh? And I was all excited about having our ‘personal hotel staff’ come up here and spoil us!” “Don’t worry,
Ms. Anderson,
there will be plenty more opportunities.” Father Vin laughed and patted her on the shoulder. He turned around and headed into his room.
    Caracas Airport, Venezuela
    Roberto stood at the head of the taxi cab line directing traffic and whistling for the next car in line to pull forward. He had a good eye for big tippers, so it was no coincidence that the man in the black leather jacket thumbing through a wad of American cash while exiting the terminal caught his attention. Without missing a beat, the young Latino chirped his whistle and waved to the man. “Over here, sir!”
    The man in the leather jacket quickly moved to the front of the line without acknowledging the displeased glares of the other patrons, some of whom had been waiting in line for more than ten minutes.
    “You look like a man who is ready to get somewhere. Do you need taxi?” Roberto hated that his English was a little broken, even after several years of practice.
    “Um, yes,” the man said, flashing his wad of bills. “But I was wondering …. I have a niece who got here a little while ago. We are all here for a family vacation. Unfortunately, I have lost all my contact information. I’m afraid I don’t know how to get in touch with her. Her hotel and the rest of the information was written down. I’ve gone and lost the paper.” He shrugged and shook his head, looking foolish. “Hey! Wait a minute! I have a picture of her. Do you think if I showed it to you, you would recognize her?”
    “Yes. Perhaps.” There was something not quite right about this
    gringo
, but with so much money, who was Roberto to judge? “If she pretty American girl, I remember her.”
    “My name’s Jack, by the way.” The man stuck out his hand.
    “I am Roberto.”
    “Well, Roberto, nice to meet you. Here’s the picture.” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a snap shot of a very pretty
Americana.
    Roberto didn’t believe for a second that the girl was related at all to the man, but he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and his eyes closed about such things.
    He thought he recognized the woman. “How long ago she come here?”
    The man called Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, I don’t know. Maybe an hour or two? She was on the earlier flight. That’s all I know.”
    “Wait here.” Roberto turned and walked to the end of the taxi line and peeked into the window of the first car. He showed the driver the picture. The driver shook his head no, and Roberto moved on down the line. He worked his way to the end of the line, stopping at the next to last cab. The driver nodded. “I remember her. She was with a priest.”
    Before he could motion to Jack, the man had flung open the taxi door and climbed into the backseat.
    “Mr. Jack.” Roberto exchanged a glance with the cab driver. “I find your niece.” He and the driver both rolled their eyes. Americans were so impatient.
    “Yeah, I saw him nodding when you asked.” He reached up over the backseat and handed Roberto a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “I know I’m jumping in line, but since he”—he pointed to the driver—”drove my niece, I’m just gonna let him drive me, too.” He pulled out another crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and waved it at Roberto. “That all right with you?”
    Oh,