Page 3 of South of Justice

The camera shifted its attention abruptly, focusing instead on the woman by the clothes line. The footage blurred for a second, then sharpened. The woman had turned to face the boy—and the camera—and was calling something out to him. She was in her sixties. Long grey hair, big green eyes, high cheekbones.

Ryan’s chest went tight, breath catching. His hand squeezed the mouse like a trigger.

It had been many years since he’d laid eyes on his former mother-in-law, Diane Carmichael. But there was no mistaking that face.

She looked just like her daughter.

Kylie. His ex-wife.

Dead two years now, brutally murdered by cartel enforcers back in the States. She’d been caught in the crossfire of a world he thought he’d left behind. The guilt never left him. Neither did the rage.

Ryan leaned forward, stomach knotting. His eyes followed the camera as it panned back to the boy.

It had to be Noah. Kylie’s son. Her only child.

The resemblance was unmistakable, his mother’s auburn hair, her wild freckles scattered across his cheeks.

The footage zoomed all the way out again, taking in the quiet suburban scene. A boy playing with his soccer ball, his grandma hanging out the laundry.

Ryan kept watching, confused. Then he heard a soft, sinister chuckle. He could tell it was coming from whoever was shooting the video.

The screen went blank.

Ryan didn’t move. The silence felt thick and pressurized. His pulse thumped loud in his ears, like it was trying to fill the room.

He stared at the laptop. Waiting for something else. Another message. A command.

But there was nothing.

He stood up, fast. Paced once, then twice, rubbing a hand down his face. He wasn’t breathing right.

It wasn’t just the footage. It was the angle, the steadiness of the camera. The way it zoomed, not with curiosity, but with precision.

He sat back down at the table and gripped the edges with both hands. They’d found Diane. They’d found Noah. They’d foundhim.

And they hadn’t said a single word. There were no demands, no ransom, no names. Just a video and a laugh.

Thatwas the message.

He stood, went to the door and rechecked the deadbolt. He shoved the chair harder under the doorknob, then crouched and slid the Walther PPK from the holster beneath his mattress.

He checked the mag and the slide, then he secured the holster under his shirt and slid the pistol into place.

The tequila bottle on the shelf looked tempting. He poured a shot, let it sit untouched. Instead, he went to the windowsill and unscrewed the lid of the dented coffee tin. Peeled back the foil false bottom.

The cash was still there. Enough to buy a bus ticket out of town, out of state, maybe even out of the country altogether. South—he would go as far south as it would take him to fall off the face of the earth.

He shoved the money back inside and closed the lid. Turned back to his laptop on the table. It felt like it was watching him.

Ryan didn’t trust the laptop. It was old—secondhand—bought in cash at a flea market south of Rosarito. But still, he’d plugged intheirflash drive. That was a mistake.

He powered the machine down, pulled out the battery, and unscrewed the casing in three practiced motions. Snapped the hard drive from its slot and cracked it against the bed frame until it split open with a metallic crunch.

He tossed the remains into a grocery bag, then removed the chair from the door handle, unlocked the chain and deadbolt. Keeping his head down, he strode down the hallway, then down the backstairs that led to the rear door of the club. He unlocked it, then slipped out into the night.

The stink of the dumpsters greeted him from half a block away. They were behind a Chinese restaurant and Ryan guessed they were due for emptying. He gave the street a thorough sweep in both directions, then slipped down the side of the restaurant, lifted the lid and slung the grocery bag with the shattered laptop inside.

Then he made his way back to the club, glad for the hard lump of his pistol at his waistband.