Page 69 of South of Justice

Lucía exhaled slowly. Her grip eased. “Fine,” she called.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.

She pressed her palm to the door. Didn’t answer.

All the heat from earlier—from that kiss, from the way his big hands had wrapped around her waist—it all hung in the air still. But so did the doubt. After all, trust was still the most dangerous currency in her world.

The boat barely whispered across the water, its small outboard motor hushed beneath a custom silencer Gates claimed was “borrowed from a narco seizure.” Ryan didn’t want to ask. The less he knew about where Gates sourced his equipment, the better.

He crouched at the bow, eyes narrowed against the salt-laced wind, one hand wrapped tight around the edge of the fiberglass hull. The heat from the kiss still simmered in his veins like whiskey. He shoved the memory down into the same corner where all his other weaknesses lived.

The moon hung low and distorted behind wisps of cloud, casting broken silver ripples across the dark inlet. Beside him, Gates navigated, guiding them toward a dark, indistinct smear of land ahead: the coastline just beyond the Altamar Compound.

Behind them, Lucía sat hunched over her laptop, her face lit in ghostly blue from the maze of open windows. Her injured arm was strapped to her ribs, but her good hand worked with mechanical speed.

“You’re clear for another hundred meters,” she said into the headset, her voice clipped but controlled. “No active commsfrom the perimeter. But two sentries rotated through the northeast fence line two minutes ago.”

Gates gave a nod without taking his eyes off the dark shoreline. “Copy that. Adjusting heading. Hold the drone until we reach cover.”

Ryan barely looked back at her. It was easier that way, easier to stay sharp if he didn’t dwell on how pale she looked in the screen glow, or how much blood she’d lost the night before.

“Another minute,” Gates murmured. “Get ready to move.”

They steered the boat into a natural break in the inlet, a narrow cove flanked by rocks and thick coastal scrub. It was shallow enough to wade. Gates killed the motor, and Ryan was the first to move, sliding over the side and dragging the boat onto a muddy rise beneath a collapsed dune.

The wind tugged at his jacket as he surveyed the terrain. The ridge above them was dark and quiet.

“Looks clean,” Ryan said, voice low.

Gates followed, tossing two packs onto the gravel. He handed Ryan a soft rifle case and shouldered a second, then unzipped a pouch to reveal a compact set of bolt cutters wrapped in cloth. Gates’s local contact, Reyes—a stockyfederale, with small round glasses and a buzzcut—joined them without a word. He gave Ryan a nod and dropped into a crouch.

Lucía’s voice returned in their ears. “Drone’s airborne. I’ve got you from above. No vehicles in the outer yard. Thermal sweep shows three bodies at the north end. Still no chatter. You’re in the window.”

Ryan, Gates and Reyes slipped into the dunes, following the winding scrub path that led them around the perimeter. The ground was uneven, coated in wiry brush and shells that cracked beneath their boots despite every effort to stay silent. Ryan led, checking angles, counting seconds between light sweeps.

The fence emerged like a phantom out of the dark: chain-link half-hidden by tangled vines. No barbed wire. No IR cameras. It looked too easy.

Gates knelt and retrieved the bolt cutters, moving with deliberate care. The metal links gave way with soft crunches. Within seconds, they’d peeled back a wide enough section to slide through.

Lucía’s voice came again, more urgent. “You’re good. Still no movement on internal thermal scans. But there’s a motion sensor tripped near the truck bay. It might be a raccoon but stay sharp.”

Ryan ducked through the fence first, pistol ready, followed by Gates and Rojas. They pressed into the shadows of a storage silo, then crossed open ground in short bursts.

A guard appeared near a cargo trailer—lean, bored, rifle slung loose. Ryan signaled. Gates tilted his head. Reyes vanished left, silent as a shadow.

There was a lowthwip, and the guard crumpled without a sound. Tranquilizer dart. Ryan dragged him into cover.

They pushed forward.

Ahead, the warehouse bulked against the skyline. A few lights glimmered in the office wing, but the bay doors were shut. They reached the south entrance, a rust-pocked steel door with a keypad. Gates produced a slim device and wired it in, tapping commands with one hand.

Lucía’s voice crackled again. “Override window opens in seventy seconds. Once I engage jamming, you’ve got ten minutes before backup systems reinitialize.”

“Roger that,” Gates muttered. The lock unit blinked.

Ryan’s heart kicked. He checked his weapon, eyes sweeping the compound’s layout. No motion yet. No sounds beyond distant waves and the clicking of Lucía’s keys in his earpiece.

“Drone picking up two more heat signatures inside the central corridor,” she added. “If they’re guards, they’re not patrolling.”