I never imagined that a dog would save me from dying 10,000 meters above the Atlantic Ocean.

But that April morning at Madrid-Barajas Adolfo Suárez Airport, my entire world was crumbling. I was trying to pass through security wearing a loose designer dress, hiding a six-month pregnancy that, at 55 years old, seemed an impossible miracle.

That’s when Roco, a German Shepherd from the National Police Canine Guide Unit, stood in front of me.

His barking was not normal. It was furious, guttural—a direct accusation that froze the blood of everyone present in Terminal 4.

“Stay still, don’t move!”, shouted Agent López, a stocky man with a sun-baked face from Madrid, approaching with his hand on his gun holster.

I raised my hands trembling. At my age, I’d never had any trouble with the law. I’m Jimena, a literature teacher, mother of two adult children, and now, to my surprise and everyone else’s, pregnant with the man I’ve been married to for three years.

“Please, I’m pregnant,” I begged with a broken voice. “The dog is scaring me.”

Behind me, my husband, Javier Montes, the famous ballad singer who filled stadiums in Spain and Latin America, huffed visibly impatient. He wore dark sunglasses and a cap, but several passengers had already recognized him and were taking videos.

“How long is this going to take? We have a flight to catch,” Javier said in that tone of a celebrity used to the world bending to his needs.

Next to him, Isabela Durán, his elegant 38-year-old manager dressed in a black tailored suit, watched the scene with crossed arms. Something in her expression didn’t fit. It wasn’t concern—it was… annoyance. Pure, outright impatience.

Roco kept barking, his front paws scraping the marble floor, his eyes fixed on me as if he could see through my dress fabric, through my skin.

Inspector Garrido, younger than López with a calmer look, approached from the other side. “Calm down, Roco, calm down, boy.”

The dog obeyed temporarily, lowering his volume to a deep growl, but his eyes never left my belly.

“Ma’am,” Garrido said firmly but politely. “Are you carrying anything in your luggage or on your person that needs declaring? Narcotics, cash?”

“Nothing, just my clothes, my documents, and…” I touched my belly instinctively, a protective gesture. “I’m six months pregnant. Please, the dog is upsetting me. It must be the hormones.”

“Of course,” López interrupted sarcastically. “Everyone says the same. ‘I’m pregnant,’ ‘I have a medical condition,’ ‘I’m innocent.’ Ma’am, this dog is trained to detect narcotics and explosives. If he’s barking like that, he smells something.”

“But I’m not carrying anything!”, tears started streaming down my cheeks. The humiliation was unbearable.

Javier took off his glasses. His face, so familiar on magazine covers, showed a mix of shame and irritation.

“Look, officers, my wife is telling the truth. This is ridiculous. We have to be in Mexico City in 12 hours for a very important press conference. Do you know who I am?”

Isabela leaned toward Javier and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, jaw clenched.

“You know what? Let’s go, Isabela. If she has to stay and clear this up, let her. I can’t miss that flight.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Air escaped from my lungs.

“What…? Javier? You can’t leave me here alone.”

“Honey, it’s just a misunderstanding,” he said, already retreating. “Clear it up and catch the next flight. I’ll wait for you there.”

He was already turning away, walking with Isabela, who carried both carry-on bags.

“Javier!”, I shouted, my voice broken.

But my husband was already passing through the gate toward the boarding lounges, without looking back.

López grabbed my arm with unnecessary force. “Come on, ma’am, to the inspection room. And don’t make a fuss, or this will get worse for you.”

Garrido frowned, looking at his partner, but said nothing. Roco followed me closely, his growls now lower but steady, like a warning engine.

As they dragged me into the airport’s interior corridors, I managed to see on a screen that flight IB6401 bound for Mexico City was starting boarding.

On that plane were my husband and the woman who had insisted so much that I travel with them this time. The woman who had arranged for me to see the “best private doctor” for my difficult pregnancy. The woman who the day before had supervised the installation of that “special vitamin device” for the long flight.

I didn’t know it yet, but that dog, that wonderful dog named Roco, had just saved my life.

Three days earlier, it all started with a hope.

I was holding the pregnancy test in my trembling hands, in the bathroom of our luxurious apartment in Salamanca, Madrid. Two pink lines. Clear and unmistakable.

Impossible.

At 55. After early menopause at 48. After all the doctors told me my chances were “nil.”

I was pregnant.

“Javier!”, I shouted, my voice a mixture of panic and joy I dared not feel.

He entered drying his hands with a towel, coming from checking some sheet music in his studio. “What’s wrong, Jimena? You look like a ghost.”

I showed him the test, wordless.

Javier’s face went through a carousel of emotions: surprise, confusion, something that looked like fear, and finally, a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well… I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither. The doctors said it was impossible.”

“Are you sure it’s reliable? Maybe it’s expired…”, he said, looking for an escape.

A stabbing pain hit my chest at his doubt. “This is the third test I’ve done, Javier. All three positive. And I have all the symptoms: the delay, nausea, exhaustion that knocks me down.”

Javier ran his hands through his hair, that gesture he made when stressed. “It’s just… complicated, Jimena. I’m 52, you’re 55. My children from my first marriage are already adults. We never planned this.”

“I didn’t either,” I responded, my voice breaking. “But it’s happening. And what are we going to do?”

“Do… it’s our child, Javier,” I said, though his reaction was freezing me inside.

He fell silent, looking out the window. Outside, Madrid shone under the late afternoon sun.

“We need to talk to Isabela,” he finally said. “She’ll know how to handle this with the press. You know how they are. They’ll turn this into a circus. ‘The 52-year-old singer and his 55-year-old wife expect a miracle baby’. Memes, mockery…”

“Is that what worries you? The memes?” I asked, incredulous.

“Jimena, I care about my career!”, he snapped. “We have commitments, scheduled tours. This changes everything.”

Tears welled up, and I felt a pain that had nothing to do with pregnancy. This wasn’t the Javier I had fallen in love with three years ago—the man who recited poetry, who promised me a lifelong love after my painful divorce. Now he was a stranger, a calculator.

“I’ll call Isabela,” Javier said, pulling out his phone. “She’ll help us.”

That very night, Isabela arrived at the apartment. She carried a fancy bottle of wine that I, ironically, couldn’t drink. She sat on the velvet sofa with crossed legs, her perfect posture, her flawless makeup even at nine at night.

“Congratulations to both of you,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s… an unexpected news.”

“That’s an understatement,” Javier muttered.

“But we can handle it,” she continued, taking control as always. “In fact, it could be good for your image, Javier. Mature love, family, second chances. We can do a PR campaign around this.”

Nausea hit me, and it had nothing to do with pregnancy. “I don’t want to do a campaign. I want to have my baby in peace.”

“Of course, Jimena,” she said with that condescending tone she always used with me. “But understand that Javier is a public figure. Everything he does affects his career. That’s why I’m here—to protect both of you.”

“Protect us?”

“Yes. Look, at your age, this pregnancy is extremely high risk. You need the best medical care. I know an incredible specialist, Dr. Serrano. He has a very discreet private clinic in Serrano neighborhood. He can monitor you without the press finding out, until we’re ready to make the announcement.”

Javier leaned forward. “That would be perfect.”

“And another thing,” she pulled out her tablet. “In two days, we have the press conference in Mexico about the new tour. It’s crucial you’re there, Javier. And I think Jimena should go too. Show unity, that everything is fine.”

“I don’t know if I can travel,” I said. “I feel very tired.”

“That’s why you should see Dr. Serrano before the trip,” she insisted. “He’ll give you special vitamins, prepare you so you can travel safely. In fact, I’ve booked an appointment for you tomorrow at three.”

Something in her tone, in her efficiency, made that warning voice in my head ring louder. But Javier was already nodding, relieved.

“Good idea. Go to the doctor, honey. I have rehearsals all day tomorrow, but Isabela can accompany you.”

And without further objections, without listening to my instinct, I had accepted.

The airport’s security check room was cold and sterile. White walls, a metal table, two chairs.

I sat with my hands on my belly, protecting it. Roco was lying near the door, but his eyes never left me.

Inspector Garrido entered with a female officer, Agent Reyes, a woman in her 40s with a serious but not hostile expression.

“Mrs. Montes, we need you to go through the body scanner. It’s a standard procedure.”

“I already told you I’m pregnant. Is it safe?”

“It’s completely safe,” Reyes assured me. “The scanner uses millimeter waves, no radiation. It won’t affect your baby.”

I nodded and got up with difficulty. My pregnancy at my age made me feel heavy, slow. They took me to an adjacent room where the scanner was—a cylindrical transparent cabin.

“Get inside and raise your arms,” Reyes instructed.

I obeyed. The machine hummed for several seconds. When I came out, Garrido was looking at his computer screen with a frown.

“You’re pregnant,” he confirmed. “About 24 weeks. No signs of any package inside. Nothing illegal.”

From the door, López snorted. “Then the dog was wrong. Damn. Let her go, we’ve wasted enough time.”

But at that moment, as if he had heard his name, Roco jumped up and slipped into the scanner room. He barked again, but this time differently. Not a general alert bark, but specific.

The dog approached me and started sniffing my right side, just below my ribs, where my loose dress formed a small bump.

“Roco, stay!” Garrido ordered. But there was something in the dog’s behavior that made him hesitate. “Ma’am, what are you carrying there?” he asked, pointing at the bump.

I touched my side and turned pale. “It… it’s a medical device. My doctor put it on two days ago.”

“A medical device? What kind?”

“It’s a subcutaneous infusion pump,” I answered trembling. “Dr. Serrano said it was to administer essential vitamins during the flight. Because of the pregnancy, at my age… he said it was necessary.”

Garrido and Reyes exchanged looks. “They installed an infusion device for a… 9-hour flight?”

“Yes, Isabela, my husband’s manager, took me to him. She said he’s the best. That it’s for safety.”

“Mrs. Montes,” Reyes said with a tone that frightened me even more than López’s shouts. “I need you to lift your dress and show us that device.”

My hands trembled as I lifted the fabric.

Attached to my skin, held with a transparent medical bandage, was a device the size of an old mobile phone. It had a small screen and what looked like buttons. A thin tube exited the device and entered my skin through a subcutaneous needle.

Reyes approached carefully. “This isn’t a standard infusion pump,” she murmured. “I’ve seen one like this before in training. About modified devices… for unconventional uses.”

“Meaning what?”, Garrido asked.

“Meaning I need to analyze its contents, but I can’t do that while it’s connected to her. It’s too risky.”

My throat tightened. “Risky. Why? What’s inside?”

“Not sure yet, ma’am, but this type of device has a reserve capacity that’s not normal for vitamins. And it has a programmable timer.”

“A timer,” Reyes repeated.

“Yes, look here.” Germán pointed to the device’s small screen. “These numbers… it’s a countdown. It started about… (he checked his calculations)… approximately 45 minutes ago.”

Silence filled the room.

I looked at the device’s screen for the first time with real attention. The numbers changed slowly.

01:15:32 01:15:31 01:15:30

“Countdown… for what?”, I whispered.

“To release the contents of the second reservoir,” Germán explained gravely. “This device has two compartments. One is administering something now, in small doses. The other is sealed and scheduled to open when the timer hits zero.”

Garrido moved closer. “How much time is left?”

“About an hour and fifteen minutes.”

“And what happens when it hits zero?”

“The contents of the second reservoir will be released all at once. Directly into her bloodstream.”

I brought my hands to my belly. “My baby… my baby is in danger.”

“I need to extract this device immediately,” Germán said. “And I need to do it in a controlled environment.”

“Yes, please, take it out!”

Germán worked with surgical precision. First disinfecting the area, then using special forceps to grip the subcutaneous catheter. With a quick but careful movement, he removed it. I grimaced in pain but didn’t scream.

The device remained on the table, its screen still showing the countdown.

01:12:28 01:12:27

Germán placed it inside a special containment box, transparent and sealed. Then he used a syringe to extract a sample from the liquid in the first compartment—the one already entering my body.

“I’ll take this to the airport’s lab. We have the capacity for quick chemical analysis. I need twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?”, I stood abruptly. “And if what it already injected is poisonous? And if my baby…?”

“Ma’am, stay calm,” Reyes said, grabbing my shoulders. “If it were a fast-acting poison, I’d be feeling symptoms already. The fact that you feel (relatively) fine suggests what you’ve received so far is probably not lethal. But we need to know what it is… and what’s in the other compartment.”

Germán left with the containment box. Garrido accompanied him. In the room remained Reyes, Roco, and me.

I stroked the dog’s head while holding my belly with the other hand. Tears streamed uncontrollably down my cheeks.

“I don’t understand. Why would someone do this? Why Dr. Serrano? Why Isabela?”

The pieces started fitting together in my mind, but they were too horrible to accept.

My husband abandoning me. Isabela insisting I travel with them. The doctor installing that device just before the trip.

The countdown.

I did the mental math. The flight to Mexico City lasted almost 10 hours. If the countdown was two hours and it started when I passed security… then the device was programmed to release its contents exactly in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. When the plane would be at its furthest point from any emergency airport.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, completely frozen with terror. “They were going to kill me on the plane.”

Reyes didn’t answer, but her silence was enough confirmation.

In the hallway, Inspector Garrido watched his partner López, who was speaking quietly on his phone, away from security cameras.

“Yes, I know there’s a problem,” López said urgently. “The damn dog detected her. No, I couldn’t stop it. Garrido’s on top of everything. Yes, they already have the device.”

There was a pause. López’s face grew tense.

“It’s not my fault. I told them this was stupid. Using the airport? With the K9 dogs? They should have done it differently. What? No, I’m not… I can’t just take her out of here! There are too many witnesses.”

Another pause. López sweat visibly. “Fine, fine. I’ll do what I can, but you guys move fast. If this explodes, I’m not going down alone, understand?”

He hung up and turned around, nearly bumping into Garrido.

“What were you talking about, López?”

“With my wife. It’s none of your business.”

“Your wife’s on night shift at the hospital. Don’t lie to me. Are you following us now?”

“I’m just doing my job, something you clearly aren’t doing. We have a woman pregnant with a suspicious device, and you’ve been trying to let her go from the start. Give me your phone. Now.”

López clenched his teeth. For a moment, he looked like he was going to resist, but then he threw his phone at Garrido. “Fine, don’t find anything.”

Garrido checked the calls and then the messages. An unidentified number, sent that morning.

“Flight IB6401. Pregnant woman, 55 years old. Let her pass no matter what the dog says. 20,000 euros upon completion.”

Garrido felt his blood run cold. “Damn, López. What were you thinking?”

López turned pale. “I didn’t know about the device, I swear. They told me to let her go. That it was an intelligence operation, that I shouldn’t ask questions.”

“An intelligence operation? And you believed it?”

“They offered me 20,000 euros, Garrido. Do you know what that means? I could pay the mortgage…”

“You could go to prison,” Garrido interrupted. “For complicity in attempted murder. That woman and her baby would have died!”

At that moment, Germán appeared running down the hall, his face white as paper. “Garrido! I’ve got the results!”

The three men entered an empty office. Germán closed the door.

“I analyzed the contents of the first compartment. It’s Heparin.”

“An anticoagulant?”, Garrido asked.

“Yes, in small, controlled doses. Not enough to cause immediate harm, but enough to sensitize the system. Like preparing the ground.”

“Preparing the ground for what?”, López whispered.

“For the second compartment,” Germán said. “I can’t analyze it without opening it and risking myself. But based on the weight and the device, I’m 99% sure it’s a massive dose. Fifty or a hundred times the normal therapeutic dose.”

“What would that do to a person?”, Garrido asked in a whisper.

“Massive internal hemorrhage. In a pregnant woman, at 10,000 meters altitude, far from any hospital… she would die within minutes. And it would look like a natural pregnancy complication—a placental abruption, a uterine rupture… No one would suspect.”

The silence was deafening. López slumped into a chair, vomiting into the trash can.

Garrido grabbed him by the collar. “You’re going to tell me exactly who contacted you. And you’re going to do it right now.”

The flight IB6401 landed at Mexico City’s Benito Juárez Airport at 5:37 PM local time.

Javier Montes got off the plane, exhausted and irritated by the airport drama. Next to him, Isabela was walking with her phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes, we arrived safely. We’re heading straight to the hotel… Yes, everything is under control.” She hung up and smiled at Javier.

“Do you think Jimena has already resolved the problem in Madrid?”

“Supposedly. Although she hasn’t called me. Maybe she’s upset because you left her.”

“You told me it was the best.”

“And I was right to tell you so,” she said.

They reached immigration. Several Federal Police officers were waiting. Javier assumed it was normal security for a public figure. But when an officer approached them directly, he knew something was wrong.

“Javier Montes? Isabela Durán?”

Isabela tensed. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

“We need you both to come with us.”

“Come with us? Where? We have commitments…”

“Your commitments will have to wait. You’ve been requested by Spanish authorities for questioning… in connection with an attempted murder.”

Javier’s face turned pale. “Attempted murder. What are you talking about?”

But Isabela, on the other hand, showed no surprise. Only cold resignation. For a second, her mask slipped, and Javier saw something in her eyes he’d never seen before: calculation.

“This is a misunderstanding,” she said firmly. “I demand to speak with my lawyer.”

“Of course. You can make your call at the station.”

Two more officers approached. One of them was wearing handcuffs.

“Wait, wait. I haven’t done anything,” Javier stammered.

The officer picked up his radio and spoke softly. Then nodded and turned to Javier.

“Mr. Montes, we’ve just received confirmation from Madrid. Your wife, Jimena Montes, was the victim of an attempted murder at Barajas Airport. She was carrying a medical device designed to kill her during the flight.”

Javier felt the ground shift beneath him. “Jimena… is she okay? My baby… are they alright?”

“They were intervened in time by the K9 unit. But the device was programmed to release a lethal dose of anticoagulant exactly when the plane was over the ocean. Your wife would have died, Mr. Montes. And it would have looked like a pregnancy complication.”

Javier turned to Isabela, eyes full of disbelief and horror.

“You… You did this.”

Isabela didn’t reply. Her face was an expressionless mask. “I won’t say anything without my lawyer.”

“Isabela! Did you try to kill my wife? My baby? ANSWER ME!”

The officer placed a hand on Javier’s shoulder. “Sir, I need you to calm down. You’re not under arrest, but we need to ask some questions. Miss Durán is under arrest.”

Her handcuffs clicked shut. She didn’t even flinch. Just looked at Javier with hatred, disdain, and disappointment.

“You should have chosen me,” she whispered before they took her away.

Javier stood frozen. His entire world, built on fame, money, and convenience, had just exploded.

In Madrid, the investigation moved at lightning speed.

Dr. Serrano was arrested at his luxurious clinic. At first, he denied everything, but when shown the device with the timer and López’s confession, he broke down.

He confessed that Isabela had blackmailed him. Serrano owed massive gambling debts to a cartel, which, coincidentally, Isabela worked as a “financial consultant” for, using Javier’s career as a façade to launder millions.

The motive was simple and terrifying. Isabela had forged a will. If Javier died, she would inherit everything. But a legitimate child, an heir by blood, ruined that plan. The baby had to disappear. And I, of course, had to disappear with him.

López was sent to prison, his career and life shattered for 20,000 euros.

Isabela was extradited to Spain. Her trial was swift. With Serrano’s testimony, her confession, the evidence of the device, and my own statement, she was convicted—forty-five years for attempted murder, document forgery, and belonging to a criminal organization.

Javier… well, he lost everything.

His career vanished. Sponsors fled. Bank accounts were frozen as part of the money laundering investigation. He discovered that the man he had been—the “great Javier Montes”—was nothing more than a puppet in Isabela’s hands.

He fully cooperated with authorities. Testified against Isabela, against the cartel. Gave everything.

He didn’t face criminal charges, but his punishment was another: public shame. Bankruptcy. And my silence.

Six months later, I gave birth.

It was a premature delivery at 36 weeks, caused by stress, but my daughter was born strong. A beautiful girl I named Victoria. Because she was: my victory over death.

Javier was in the hospital. I hadn’t let him into the delivery room, but when I had Victoria in my arms, I asked the nurse to let him in.

He entered, no longer the famous singer. Just a 52-year-old man, looking tired and remorseful, gazing at his daughter as if she were the only real thing he’d seen in years.

“She’s… perfect,” he whispered, crying.

“She’s your daughter, Javier,” I told him, my voice tired. “I don’t know if I can forgive you for abandoning me. I don’t know if I can forgive you for your blindness. But she’s not to blame. You have to earn her love.”

“I will,” he said, trembling as he placed a finger on her tiny hand. “I swear, Jimena. I will.”

Today, Victoria is two years old.

We live in a smaller apartment, far from the luxury of Salamanca. Javier lost his fortune but found something close to redemption. He teaches guitar to children at a community center.

He comes to see Victoria three times a week. We haven’t been a couple again—that ship sailed the day he left me at the airport. But we are learning to be parents.

And Roco?

Inspector Garrido called me a week after the incident. Roco was “retired” from active service due to “post-traumatic stress” (a euphemism, as I learned later, because the dog was perfectly fine).

Garrido asked if I would be willing to adopt a very intelligent German Shepherd, but a bit stubborn.

Roco now sleeps at Victoria’s feet, her protector, her shadow.

Sometimes, when I watch my daughter laugh as she throws the ball to Roco, I think about that day at Barajas. I think about how, in my darkest moment, abandoned by the man I loved and attacked by a furious dog, I was actually being saved.

Javier failed me. Isabela tried to kill me. But Roco, that incredible dog, saw what no human could see.

He saved my life. And gave me my daughter’s.