Page 95 of South of Justice

The other men were still staring at her, their expressions having sharpened. Like the zoo creature was now something they wanted to pet.

Well, if they did, they would soon find out this one bit. Fear and adrenaline were making her whole body shake, but sheforced herself not to panic. Yes, her arms were still bound, but she had both legs free and if any of these fuckers tried to touch her, she knew exactly where she was going to aim the first kick.

But neither of the men made any move toward her. One dragged a metal chair over, its metal legs screeching against the concrete. The hand on shoulder tightened again, forcing her down onto it.

“Take a seat.”

A zip tie cinched around one of her ankles, securing it to the leg of the chair, then the other. Both her hands were then tied to each arm.

The footsteps moved away. The door slammed. The lock turned.Silence fell again.

She tried to shift her weight, but the chair legs grated loudly.

She could hear the men outside now, faint through the walls. Talking, laughing. And under it all, the low hum of a plane engine winding down.

Someone had just arrived.

Her heart leapt painfully. She thought of Ryan when she’d last seen him, bleeding, furious. She thought of Noah, just a kid and yet trying so hard to be brave through things that would make most adults shit their pants.

And of Javier: his voice smooth as polished glass, promising that she would always come back to him, one way or another.

Lucía inhaled, slow and quiet. She could taste rust in the air. And something else—cleaner, sharper. Disinfectant.

Someone had prepared for her.

She rotated her wrist, slow, careful, testing the friction of plastic against skin.

She wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot.

FIFTY-THREE

The sun was low,bleeding red across the horizon like an open wound. Long shadows stretched across the cracked parking lot of the motel.

Ryan leaned against the hood of the old pickup, one boot resting on the bumper, the other pressing into the dirt. His PPK, loaded with the last of his ammunition, was back in his hip holster. The truck coughed behind him, engine idling unevenly. He’d found a jerry can of gas stashed beside a collapsed shed earlier that afternoon. It was only half full and likely siphoned off a decade ago. It reeked, but it ran.

He’d stripped the truck of anything unnecessary: a rotted bench seat, a pair of fuzzy dice, a CB radio that hadn’t chirped in years. The tires held air. The brakes were spongy, but they worked. Noah sat curled in the cab, clutching a bottle of tepid water.

Ryan’s leg throbbed, a steady, radiating pain that pulsed with every heartbeat. The stitches he’d put in earlier were already puckering. He’d splinted the thigh with a piece of cabinet slat and some duct tape, but the wound was deep, and he was burning through his limited painkillers fast. They had to move.As for where, he didn’t know. He had a set of tire tracks from the Phalanx SUV heading north and following them was about as good a plan he had. For now, anyway.

The tracker still sat in his palm. He turned it over once more; lips pressed into a line. The idea of walking away burned. But maybe that was the only play he had left. Gates might still be on his way. But he might not. For all Ryan knew, Reyes had killed Gates, and taken Lucía halfway to Guatemala by now, and the dot in his boot was just a goddamn breadcrumb no one was ever going to follow.

Hell, maybe Gates had been part of the plan all along. Maybe this was just another layer in the con. Maybe he was, as he’d always been, on his own. He flicked the tracker into the dirt and crushed it under his heel. Then he reached for the driver’s door, muscles screaming with every movement.

And that’s when he saw it.

A shimmer on the horizon. Dust kicked up from a small vehicle speeding along the gravel road. The sun had dropped just enough to turn the oncoming shape into no more than a silhouette.

Ryan froze, fingers still resting on the truck door. He squinted into the distance. The vehicle crested the low ridge. It slowed as it approached the edge of the lot, tires crunching. As it came closer, Ryan could see it was an old Volkswagen Beetle, bright orange.

He slid his weapon from its holster.

The car stopped. Noah stirred behind him. “Ryan?”

“Stay in the truck,” Ryan murmured.

The driver’s side door of the car creaked open. A figure unfolded himself from the vehicle, his movements stiff. It would have been a comical sight—a big, broad-shouldered man climbing out of such a tiny car. But Ryan found it unfunny enough to keep a firm grip on his weapon.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as the man straightened.