Page 51 of South of Justice

Lucía exhaled hard. “Damn.”

She moved to one of the crates and pried it open with a piece of rusted metal. Inside: rotted packing foam, a rusted electrical coil, and a torn receipt.

Ryan leaned against the wall. “Dead end.”

Lucía didn’t move. “It doesn’t make sense. The money moved from this company. The signature matches. It should’ve led somewhere.”

“Well, it didn’t,” Ryan snapped. He regretted the sharpness even as it came out, but the frustration was rising in his throat like bile. He was hot, and hungry and so tired he could barely think straight. “We’re running out of time, and every one of these leads is colder than the last.”

Lucía turned, her expression sharp. “Don’t put this on me. You think I’m not aware of the stakes? That I don’t know what happens if we don’t find that boy?”

He crossed his arms. “You’re the one with the map. So far, it’s gotten us nowhere.”

Her eyes blazed. “I’mthe one with the map? You mean the one I built while running for my life? While hiding in shit motels and stealing Wi-Fi from corner stores?”

Ryan opened his mouth, then shut it.

Lucía stepped closer, close enough he could smell the sharp citrus of her shampoo, or maybe just the heat rolling off her skin. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t need you second-guessing me every time something doesn’t explode into answers.”

Ryan didn’t back down. “I’m not second-guessing. I’m just tired of chasing shadows.”

The silence that fell between them was too tight, too close. Her eyes flicked over his mouth before she looked away.

Ryan’s voice was low. “You said it yourself. Could be nothing, could be everything.”

She looked at him, anger flashing. “Yeah, well, I was hoping for the second one.”

He forced himself to soften. “We’ll find the right lead.”

Lucía shook her head, then started walking toward the exit. “You know,” she said over her shoulder, “for someone who hates chasing shadows, you sure do spend a lot of time standing in them.”

He followed, lips twitching into something that almost resembled a smile.

Gates leaned over the table, elbows planted between cables and monitors. The feed from drone B-17 flickered, then stabilized. A grainy image resolved: Ryan and Lucía emerging from the shipping yard’s back entrance, their expressions tight, body language guarded, but aligned.

Behind him, the surveillance team murmured updates. A local handler tapped in the next grid overlay. The thermal signature of their vehicle flared, then dimmed as they turned south along the coastal road.

Reyes picked up his tablet and scrolled through the latest field notes. “We’ve got a clean intercept window. If you want them stopped, this is it.”

Gates watched the screen in silence, arms crossed. “Let them go.”

Reyes blinked in surprise.

Gates looked back at the screen, re-watching Ryan guide Lucía into the vehicle like she was something fragile. His jaw tightened. “Log their route. Keep the drones high. No close pings. I want eyes, not footprints.”

Reyes hesitated. “So we’re not engaging?”

“Not yet. Let them believe they’re in control.” Gates stepped away from the monitors, his voice low. “When the time comes,” he said, “we’ll be ready.”

THIRTY-THREE

Outside the motel window,the neon “Vacancy” sign buzzed, half the letters burnt out. The place looked like it had been forgotten by time and remembered only by desperate travelers.

Lucía sat on the edge of one of the twin beds, still dressed, eyes fixed on the soft blue light of her laptop. She wasn’t working anymore, she was just staring at the code she’d already run, willing it to yield something new. The cursor blinked like a heartbeat, steady and mocking. She scrolled through familiar commands, but her thoughts refused to settle.

Her mind wasn’t on the screen.

It was on Ryan, in the shower.