Page 1 of You Can Run
PROLOGUE
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
The concrete floor was wet.The man in the chair wasn’t sure if it was sweat, spilled beer, or the water they’d dumped over his head ten minutes ago. His vision blurred in and out, his swollen eye refusing to open, his good one tracking movement through a haze of tears. The duct tape cut into his wrists.
Officer Trent Haley was having a very bad day indeed.
A heavyset Latino man paced in front of him, shirtless despite the cold in the back room. A black handprint tattoo stretched over his chest—the outline unmistakable even through the dim light.
La Mano Negra.
The torturer flicked open a switchblade with a little snick of metal.
Trent sobbed through the gag, choking on his own spit.
With a small grunt of impatience, the torturer tugged the gag down. “Owe is owe,Oficial.You played with money that wasn't yours. Now you pay.”
“I’ll pay!” Trent shrieked. “I swear—just give me time?—”
The backhand caught him across the jaw and he tasted blood. But through the pain, a darker, sharper instinct took over.
“WAIT!” Trent screamed, spit flying. “I have something better than money. I have the girl you all want.”
The torturer paused, the blade hovering a millimeter from Trent’s eyelid. He tilted his head. “What girl?”
“The one who gutted your operation thirteen years ago. The one who survived the Florida storm.” Trent was hyperventilating, but a sick sort of triumph leaked into his voice. “She’s been living under my roof. Jessica Meeks. She thinks she’s hidden, but I know exactly who she is.”
The torturer’s eyes sharpened. The boredom vanished, replaced by a predatory focus.
For months now, Trent had watched his girlfriend Jessica in the quiet moments of their life together. He’d seen her touch that ring on a chain under her shirt when she thought he was asleep. He’d seen her touch herself, too, right after, and he knew she hadn’t been thinking about him when she did it.
He’d seen the way her eyes went distant, looking for a ghost he couldn't compete with.
She’d been cagey with him about her past from the very start. She never spoke of it. She changed the subject or invented some reason to leave the room whenever he brought it up. So, not long after they’d first met, he’d run a full background check on her. What little had come back had only increased his suspicion of her past. He’d dug deeper, searching law enforcement databases, looking for clues to her past. Finally, he’d turned up an old federal indictment and pieced together the story of the Chicago ballerina who turned rat and the cartel runner who’d vanished with her. He’d kept it as his ace in the hole—a way to own her if she ever tried to leave.
But now, he needed it to breathe.
“She’s in Corpus,” he blurted. “She’s stripping at The Bare Minimum.”
“And the boyfriend?” the torturer asked. “The one they calledEl Fantasma?”
Trent’s jaw worked. He thought of the ruby ring again, the one she wore for a man who was supposed to be dead. If he was going down, he was taking that “ghost” with him.
“Daniel Castaño,” Trent hissed. “He’s alive. He’s in Agua Dulce, going by Dante Cruz. I tracked him down months ago. They’re right here. Both of them.”
The silence that followed was heavy. The torturer slid the blade away. He reached down and patted Trent’s bruised cheek, almost tenderly.
“You’ve been a very busy boy, Trent.”
He snapped his fingers. Someone sliced the tape from Trent's wrists. Trent collapsed to the floor, his body shaking with relief.
“Get out,” the torturer said. “If I see you again, I won't be looking for a trade.”
Trent scrambled for the door. In the alleyway, his badge fell from his pocket, clattering onto the wet asphalt.
PRESENT
The prison van hummed down a cracked desert road an hour east of El Paso. The early light was thin, too weak to chase the shadows from the parched hills.
