Page 93 of South of Justice

It was done. He allowed himself a moment of rest, bracing himself over the sink. Then he turned and hobbled out of the bathroom into the bullet-strewn main room.

Noah sat on the bed, cross-legged, nibbling the protein bar Ryan had found in the glovebox. It looked rock hard, but the kid wasn’t complaining. Ryan had a brief flare of concern about how much all of this was going to fuck him up in the future. Most kids his age only saw blood and bullets and the insides of safehouses from behind a gaming console on their sofa. He was seeing it all for real.

He forced himself to shelve that thought for another day and focus on the more pressing issues.

Okay. Leg bandaged. Water and food found, sort of. What’s next?

Get this damn boot off.His blood-soaked sock has caused a blister on his heel to form. And he wasn’t going anywhere if he couldn’t walk.

He braced one hand on the chair, bent forward, and tugged at the laces. The motion was slow, mechanical. When the boot came free, he saw that his sock was stiff with blood, the edge crusted brown. As he went to set the boot aside, something caught his eye.

Inside, near the heel, something glinted faintly—just a flash of gray plastic under the insole.

He frowned. Reached in. His fingers brushed something smooth and foreign, wedged beneath the liner. He pried it loose, pulling it into the light.

Small. Flat. Black casing.

Ryan froze, the air leaving his lungs in one long, silent breath.

It was a tracker.

He turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the thin seam along its edge. A GPS beacon, military-grade, maybe, or federal. This wasn’t cartel tech.

He knew this kind of thing. He’dusedthis kind of thing.

“Gates,” he whispered. “You motherfucker.”

He should have known the marshal would’ve pulled a trick like this. The man’s paranoia had always run deep. The bastard had never trusted anyone, least of all Ryan. He hadn’t been the one to betray him, but he had been keeping him on a little digital leash.

And this time, Ryan had never been more relieved to be the object of his suspicions.

Because it meant if Gates was still out there—and if he was still alive—he’d probably be following the signal. And if he was, it would only be a matter of time before he showed up here.

It was a lot of ifs, but for the first time, he felt that maybe not all was lost.

Ryan pushed to his feet, biting back a groan as the stitched-up thigh protested every inch. He limped to the doorway, stared out at the lot.

On the opposite side of the lot from the ruined SUV was that battered pickup. Hood warped, tires soft. A relic of someone else’s bad luck.

He could try it. It might even run.

Gas would be a problem. Food, too. But he could load Noah in, point them toward the Sierra, or hell, even north. Pick a direction, any direction, and vanish.

Start over. Again.

He leaned against the doorframe, exhaling heavily. He didn’t want to admit how tempting it was. Because what else was left?

Lucía was gone. Taken by mercenaries working for someone he still couldn’t name. Phalanx Group didn’t play small games, and Ryan couldn’t even guess where they’d taken her.

He rubbed a hand down his face. Grit clung to his skin. He could take the kid, head for Belize or somewhere. Trade the last of their cash for a ride. Get them both new names. Try to carve out something quiet and human for once in his goddamn life.

But even as he thought it, he knew.

He wouldn’t leave her.

Lucía had put her life on the line—for Noah, for the truth. For him, even when she shouldn’t have. She had every reason to run, and she’d stayed. Again and again.

He looked down at the tracker, still clenched in his hand.