Page 1 of South of Justice

ONE

The soundof the bass was so deep it could bury the dead. Smoke hung in the air, heavy with the stench of sweat and cheap perfume. Laser lights swept the dance floor like searchlights. The strippers moved ghost-like through the haze, eyes dull, smiles fixed. Ryan Inglis leaned against a chipped concrete pillar, motionless except for his eyes.

From the outside, Club Persephone looked like it used to be something else. A fish-packing warehouse, maybe. Or a cantina that outlived every liquor license it ever had. It was located in the Zona Playitas, a dimly-lit, slightly decaying neighborhood of Ensenada, a few streets inland from the sea. Tourists came here by accident. Cartel affiliates came here on purpose. Deals were made in booths where the sound system drowned out even the worst intentions.

He turned his head, taking in both exits and the rusted spiral staircase that led to the VIP area. The high rollers in this town were entirely different beasts from the ones back home. Here, they didn’t carry Louis Vuitton handbags or lap dogs, just nickel-plated Desert Eagles tucked into holsters and stares that dared you to test them.

A pair of locals—day laborers from the look of their dirt-caked work boots—moved toward the bar. One of them nudged the other, gesturing toward Ryan. “No hagas pendejadas, güey. El Muro está ahí.”

Don’t do anything stupid, man. The Wall’s right there. They were talking about him. The name had been floating around for a while now—El Muro. The Wall. He didn’t mind the nickname. In fact, he thought it kind of suited him. Walls don’t feel. Walls don’t care who you used to be. Both the men laughed, but not loud. The second guy glanced over at Ryan, then away just as fast. “¿Ese cabrón? Ni parpadea.”

That bastard doesn’t even blink.

Ryan didn’t react, he just returned his focus to the room around him. Back when he wore a badge, this place would have been a raid waiting to happen. In his two months of working as a bouncer in this particular doorway, he’d learned three types of people come here. The ones who want to forget. The ones who want to be seen. And the ones just killing time until they kill someone.

Behind the bar, Marisol, a pretty bartender in her twenties, her black hair in a thick braid, mopped up yet another spilled drink. She’d lasted three whole weeks here, which made her a veteran in Ryan’s book. Marisol sometimes gave him that slow, careful smile that invited a man to imagine things. Ryan imagined them—God, he did—but he always shut the door on the thought. A single touch might undo him. A single kiss might burn through the discipline he’d built, brick by brick, since his life went to hell. That didn’t stop the need for a woman living under his skin like a low-grade fever. But letting it loose felt like inviting disaster.

A string of English expletives cut through the din. Ryan tensed. The voice was slurred, but unmistakably American.

His gaze swept across the room until he found the source: a lanky gringo by the bar, sweat blooming dark across his t-shirt, pupils blown wide. High on more than the cheap liquor. He was looming over a stocky local, swaying hard enough he looked ready to either punch the guy or pass out.

The local wasn’t planning to find out. His hand drifted toward the pistol tucked at his lower back.

The American didn’t clock it, either too stoned or too stupid. He slammed his plastic cup onto the bar behind him, spilling booze across the counter. Then he shoved the other man hard, and Ryan watched his hand close around the gun.

Marisol, who’d just finished wiping up the last mess, sighed and moved across the bar to start sopping up the spill. Ryan played the scene out in his mind. If the man drew and fired, she would be right in the line of fire.

He moved. Not fast, not loud. Just a wall, shifting into place.

The local caught sight of him first. Ryan shook his head once, slow and deliberate.

The man froze, one hand still hovering at the small of his back. A quick calculation behind his eyes. Not worth it, not tonight. He let go of the pistol. Hands raised in a tight arc, frustrated, he backed off into the crowd.

The American wasn’t so smart. He turned, wide-eyed, and for half a second, Ryan saw something sharp behind the fog of drugs.

Recognition. Or maybe just the spark of a man grabbing at half-formed memories.

Ryan’s gut twisted hard. He’d had nightmares about this exact moment. There were still posters of him up in the States. His face was on websites, side-by-side with words like “traitor” and “disgraced deputy U.S. marshal.” And the story behind why was still doing the rounds on TV on slow news days. If someonerecognized him here, it wouldn’t just end his exile. It could get him killed.

The American’s mouth opened, slow and stupid. “Hey… You—you look like…”

Ryan was already moving. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted it cleanly, and slammed him chest-first into the bar.

A grunt of pain, a slurred curse. Nothing intelligible. The tension broke as fast as it had built.

Ryan crouched low, voice just for the idiot’s ear. “Pick another bar. Pick another town.”

The American blinked up at him, dazed, barely coherent. Whatever flicker of memory had been there was already gone. Ryan let go, stepping back before adrenaline made him careless.

The drunk staggered past him, pushing other patrons out of the way in his desperation to get to the door.

Ryan watched until he disappeared onto the dark streets of Ensenada. He straightened, breathing steady but his pulse still hammering behind his ribs.

The bullet he’d dodged wasn’t lead tonight.

It was memory.

***