Page 39 of You Can Run

“I know.” Santiago's voice was tight. “That's what worries me.”

He turned then, meeting Julian's eyes, and whatever was in his expression stuck, because Julian's posture changed.

“Just pay attention today,” Santiago said. “Anything feels off, you tell me.”

Julian frowned. “Santiago?—”

A dog barked somewhere down the street. One bark, sharp and loud.

Then nothing.

Santiago's spine went rigid. That dog never stopped at one. Never cut itself off mid-warning like that.

“Did you hear?—”

The front door blew open.

The frame splintered inward, wood and glass collapsing together in a single violent instant. The sound was like a detonation, the kind of noise that empties your head of everything except the animal knowledge that something is very wrong.

Julian didn't have time to shout.

Santiago reached for the nearest thing that could serve as a weapon, but the motion barely started before a hand closed around the back of his neck and drove him forward.

His face hit the granite counter. The impact emptied his vision for a split second, and when the world came back it brought pain with it, hot and immediate, blood already filling his mouth. His hands scrabbled against the kitchen floor, trying to push himself upright.

Fingers tightened in his hair and yanked his head back, holding him in a grip that forced his spine into an arch. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

Santiago forced one eye open through the blur of blood.

Julian was on the floor. A woman had a knee braced between his shoulders, a blade held at his throat with the kind of still precision that made movement impossible. She wasn't straining, she wasn't even tense. She looked like someone performing a task she'd performed many times before.

Then Santiago saw the man standing over him.

Ferrera.

The recognition settled in with a feeling less like surprise and more like confirmation. The thing he'd been afraid of all night, finally given a face.

“Where is he?” Ferrera asked.

His grip tightened, forcing Santiago to meet his eyes. A boot pressed into the small of Santiago's back, firm enough to make it clear that resistance would not tolerated.

“I don't know,” Santiago said. His voice was rough but it held. “He left last night.”

Ferrera leaned closer. “Don't insult me. I've waited a long time for this conversation, and I'd prefer not to waste it on lies.”

Santiago's gaze shifted to Julian. The blade hadn't moved, but a thin line of red had formed beneath it.

Julian's eyes found his. There was fear there, but also trust, and the trust was worse, because it meant Julian believed Santiago could get them out of this, and Santiago was not sure that was true.

He couldn't win. He could only choose what he gave them.

“The girl,” the woman said. “Where were they going?”

Santiago let his breathing roughen, let the panic edge into his voice. “I don't know,” he said. “He didn't tell me where. He just said they had to get to the water.”

He held Ferrera's gaze and sold it: the desperate, half-useful confession of a man giving up what little he had.

“The water,” Ferrera repeated slowly.