Page 2 of South of Justice

He turned back to the bar. Marisol slid him a bottle of water over the counter. The incident appeared to have barely fazed her, which was a skill Ryan wasn’t sure if he admired or feared.

“El Muro,” she said, then added in heavily-accented English, “personality of one, too.”

Their eyes met for a second, hers amused.

He took the water. “You want me to make conversation or keep the idiots from bleeding out on your floor?”

“Long as you do the second one, you can stay mute all you like.”

Ryan nodded and returned to his post by the door. This place was purgatory, with tequila. But no matter how monotonousthe nights were, how predictable the actions of drunks with weapons, he never let himself become complacent. Never let himself while away the hours scrolling his phone or take a few drinks to dull the edge of his boredom.

Because he knew if someone ever came for him, it’d be here.

The crowd shifted, pressed tighter by a new beat pounding through the speakers. Ryan adjusted his stance again by the concrete pillar. Habit. He hated this part—the way the crowd moved like a living thing, all heat and noise and blurring shapes. It was too easy to lose track of threats. Too easy to miss something.

He felt it then, the slightest tug against the hem of his jacket. His hand closed reflexively around his pocket. But there was nothing unusual. No wallet lifted, no weapon drawn.

Then a voice came from behind his left shoulder, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Para ti. Él dice que te recuerda.”

Ryan spun around, his pulse thudding in his ears. He scanned the bodies surging past, their faces glazed with drink–grinning, shouting, oblivious.

Or pretending to be.

Keeping his movements easy, he shifted one hand inside his jacket. His fingers brushed something smooth and hard, a plastic USB drive slipped into the inner pocket of his jacket.

It hadn’t been there a minute ago.

He didn’t freeze. He just straightened against the wall, scanning the exits again. Trying to pick out who was watching.

Because someone was.

Near the back of the room, a man raised a phone, pretending to film the strippers, maybe. But the lens wasn’t pointed at the stage. It was pointed at him.

And when Ryan stared the man down, he melted into the throng, swallowed by the bass and strobe lights.

He slid the drive deeper into his pocket. Later. For now, he just kept breathing. Kept pretending everything was normal. Which was hard when the words he’d heard behind him kept echoing in his head.

For you. From someone who remembers.

TWO

Ryan livedin a one-room walk-up above the club. It was barely bigger than the mattress he slept on and about as homey as a bunker. Cracked tile floors, a barred window that didn’t open, and a fan that buzzed overhead like a dying wasp. A tiny bathroom, not much bigger than a closet. The air smelled of tequila and old cigarettes.

He locked the door behind him, bolted it and slid the chain across. Then shoved a chair under the handle for good measure.

He sat at the table, his laptop in front of him, the flash drive pinched between his fingers like it might bite. The cheap overhead bulb flickered once, twice, before settling into a dim, nervous glow.

Typical. Club Persephone could keep the tequila flowing but couldn’t keep the lights steady.

Ryan slid the drive into the port. One folder. One video. No label.

His hand gripped the mouse, and he clicked.

A video screen sprang open and immediately began playing. The footage showed a small blue and white house set back in a well-tended yard. A child’s bike lay abandoned in the grass.Around the side of the house, a woman was hanging laundry on a line. The video looked like it had been taken on a phone, from across the street. The camera was steady, so Ryan guessed it had been shot from out the window of a parked car.

A boy ran into frame. The camera snapped to attention, panning until it had him fully in shot, then zooming in close. The kid was seven, maybe older. Soccer ball under his arms. Messy brown hair. Skinny limbs.

Ryan leaned forward, squinting. He didn’t recognize him.