Page 66 of South of Justice

Gates’s answer was immediate. “Then we get out fast.”

Ryan turned to Gates, jaw tight. “And what’s your play when this is done? You handing me over to the USMS? To spend the rest of my life in a federal prison?”

“No,” Gates said. “You get this boy out, you walk. That’s my word.”

Ryan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. The plan sat between them, full of holes they couldn’t afford to face.

But they were going anyway.

Ryan sat at the table, his PPK stripped and scattered in neat rows across a dishtowel. His hands moved with practiced calm: clean, oil, reassemble. The ritual of it settled his nerves.

Gates leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. “What were they calling you back in Ensenada? El…Muro?”

Ryan fitted the barrel back into the slide. Smooth, mechanical. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me for a while, then.”

He stepped into the room, picked up a chipped mug, and poured himself coffee from the stovetop pot. “It fits,” he said, ignoring Ryan’s comment.

Ryan locked the slide back into place with a sharp metallic click and finally looked up. “You here to help, or to talk shit?”

Gates shrugged, taking a sip. “Just trying to see if the guy I knew is still in there somewhere. Because if he’s gone? Might be I’m working with a statue.”

Ryan exhaled through his nose and began threading his belt holster. “You think I wanted to walk away? You think I liked what happened in that hurricane?”

Gates didn’t flinch. “I think you couldn’t live with it. And instead of facing the wreckage, you bolted south. Hiding in hovels, behind fake IDs and aliases.”

Ryan stood abruptly, the chair scraping back.

Then Gates added, quieter now, “You were a damn good marshal. One of the best I knew. I hated that you flamed out like that. I still do.”

Ryan looked away, fingers tightening around the back of the chair. After a beat, he said, “You ever wonder why we never really got along?”

Gates’s grin was faint, but not cruel. “Because I followed the rules. And you followed your gut.”

Ryan nodded slowly. “And look where that’s gotten both of us.”

Lucía sat on the bed with her legs curled under her, the scratchy blanket bunched around her waist. Her shoulder throbbed beneath the gauze.

Outside the half-closed door, she heard low voices. Ryan and Gates. Their tones were muted but not undecipherable. Clearly, there was a thread of history between them, something old and unfinished, and she could feel it through the walls.

Every instinct screamed. It was too clean. A federal marshal arriving with medical supplies, real-time surveillance data, and an escape plan? Minutes after she took a bullet?

No. She didn’t believe in coincidence. She especially didn’t believe in coincidence when it showed up with a badge and a strong jaw.

Lucía slid to the edge of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. Her breath hitched as she pushed to stand. The room tilted. She gritted her teeth and let the wave pass. Her shoulder burned like it had its own pulse. She sat back down.

Her head ached, but her thoughts were clearer than they’d been in days. Her fear had crystallized into focus. It wasn’t the look Gates had given Ryan that bothered her. That had been all surface—friendly tension, something old and personal and half-buried. Something to do with pride, or maybe betrayal. Men like them wore past wounds like old medals.

No. It was the look he’d given her when he thought she wasn’t watching. Calculating. Measuring. Like he was appraising a locked vault.

Light-headed, she scooted back and leaned against the wall, her breath slow and shallow.

He knows too much. He has too much. And he asked too few questions.

The door creaked. Ryan stepped inside, his silhouette cutting across the floor. He held two mugs, one steaming.

“You should be resting,” he said.

She gave him a tired smile. “So should you.”