Page 62 of South of Justice

THIRTY-EIGHT

The house was tuckedbehind a rusted metal gate, half-eaten by the wild brush of the coastline hills. There were no exterior lights, no clear driveway, just a gravel track that vanished into the growing dusk. Gates maneuvered the SUV down it, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the undergrowth.

“This place secure?” Ryan asked, breaking the silence as they bounced to a stop in front of the darkened house.

Gates killed the engine and leaned forward on the wheel. “As secure as anything gets out here.”

Ryan opened the door, gravel crunching under his boots. Lucía was barely conscious, her weight limp as he gathered her in his arms.

Gates moved fast, unlocking the door with a key from around his neck. He led the way through a sparsely furnished front room to the nearest bedroom.

Ryan laid Lucía on a narrow bed with taut white sheets and a folded blanket. She let out a soft moan, her face twisted in pain. Her tank top stuck to her side where blood had soaked through the bandages.

“She’s crashing,” Ryan muttered, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead.

Gates disappeared into a hallway and returned moments later with a trauma kit, a portable vitals monitor, and a small cooler marked with medical tape. “Got lidocaine, forceps, sterile gauze, and sutures. Bullet’s still inside. You’re gonna have to take it out.”

Ryan stared at him. “It’s deep.”

Gates raised a brow. “You trust me to do it?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He just pulled on the nitrile gloves Gates handed him.

Lucía stirred, mumbling something unintelligible. Her body twitched against the mattress.

“Get me a bowl of clean water and some towels,” Ryan said, already tearing open gauze packets.

Gates moved through to the kitchen, and Ryan got to work. He cut away the bloodstained fabric of her top, swabbed the wound, and injected the lidocaine. Her skin flinched under the needle, but she didn’t wake.

The tools gleamed under the low light of the bedside lamp. Ryan found the entry wound, shallow but bleeding steadily. He eased the forceps into the torn flesh. A quiet metallic scrape, then resistance. He shifted his angle.

Lucía twitched, a strangled sound escaping her lips. Her fingers locked onto the edge of the mattress.

“Almost there,” Ryan murmured, sweat beading along his temple.

Finally, the bullet came free. He dropped it into a metal tray with a dull clink.

Lucía’s body slackened. She’d passed out.

Gates returned with the water and towels. Ryan worked fast, flushing the wound, dressing it tight, and checking her vitals. The monitor beeped softly—steady, but weak.

He washed his hands at the kitchen sink. Blood swirled pink down the drain. Gates leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You did good,” Gates said.

Ryan dried his hands with a rag. “Why are you helping us, Gates? Really?”

There was a long beat before Gates replied. “Because I still believe in what we swore to do. And because there’s a seven-year-old boy in danger who didn’t choose any of this.”

Ryan looked away. Gates didn’t sound like he was lying. In fact, from his memory of his time working with the man, this kind ofswoop in and save the daybullshit was exactly his MO.

And hadn’t he done exactly that? If he hadn’t shown up when he did, Lucía would almost certainly have bled out on the side of that road in Salina Cruz. Another woman he wasn’t able to save.

“Ryan, believe it or not, you used to be one of the best fugitive hunters I ever worked with. So maybe we stop stepping on each other’s toes. Especially when we want the same thing.”

“And after?” Ryan asked. “What happens when this is over?”

Gates didn’t blink. “One thing at a time.”