Page 11 of South of Justice

Noah, whose blood wasn’t his, but whose mother had once laid next to Ryan in his father’s hunting cabin in Tellico Plains and whispered that she would never stop loving him. Who’d gotten his name tattooed on her thigh, high enough up that every time Ryan saw it, desire had shot through his veins like liquid fire. Who’d gotten pregnant with his baby at seventeen, married him within the month, then lost the child before it could draw its first breath.

Whose life had spiraled from then, into depression, then addiction, then a life of transience and fear. Who’d died scared and dopesick, at the hands of evil men who’d used her to get to him. Then disposed of her like trash.

Now, men like that had her son. Ryan had seen the fear on his face. That instinctive, animal fear when a child senses a predator nearby.

It was the kind of fear that lived in the marrow.

Lucía kept walking, even after her lungs began to burn. Puerto Escondido already shimmered in the early-morning heat. Her pack dug into her back, growing heavier with every step.

She ducked into a narrowtienda, bought a bottle of water and a bag of plantain chips. They would have to sustain her on the last half mile to the bus station. As she walked and ate, she tried not to think about the ripple effect she’d just started. Once all three pieces had been released and the ledger reassembled, there’d be no leverage left. There’d be no more hiding out in México, switching buses and names. Nowhere would be safe, from the cartel, or fromhim.

Just the thought of his name made her pulse jump. He wasn’t a plaza boss or a sicario. He didn’t send death threats, heleft signatures. Emptied bank accounts. Executions disguised as freak accidents.

Lucía closed her eyes, sweat gathering under her arms. He wouldn’t send someone to kill her. Not first. He’d want the key. And he’d want it intact.

But more than that…he’d wanther. Not the woman she’d become. But the girl she’d been. The one who’d sat in his office and pretended not to flinch when he’d asked for things that sounded like commands disguised as seductions.

NINE

NINE YEARS AGO

The reception areasmelled faintly of lemon polish and expensive perfume. Somewhere behind the frosted glass doors, a phone rang twice, then stopped.

Lucía smoothed her skirt as she sat, crossing one leg over the other. A handful of other applicants sat in stiff silence in the waiting area, each lost in their own thoughts.

The man two seats away caught her eye. Mid-twenties, dark curls, relaxed posture. His dress shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark hair and a faint ink mark along his wrist, like he’d been jotting notes before he came in.

He caught her staring, and offered a quick, conspiratorial smile. Leaning toward her, he asked, “Long morning?” in quiet Spanish.

She glanced at the wall clock. “Feels longer when you can hear your own heartbeat.”

That earned her a soft chuckle. He tilted his head, dark eyes glinting. “First time interviewing here?”

“Isn’t it everyone’s?”

“Not me,” he said, lowering his voice like he was letting her in on a secret. “Second try. Last time I made it to round two before Esquivel decided I wasn’t…whatever it is he’s looking for.”

Before she could respond, the inner door opened. A sharply dressed assistant appeared. The scent of Chanel No. 5 grew stronger.

“Señorita Duarte?”

Lucía rose.

“Good luck,” he murmured.

She gave a small nod, then smoothed her skirt and followed the assistant through the door.

The office was colder than she’d expected. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. It was all steel and glass and blond wood, as tasteful as it was sterile and devoid of personality. Her last job had been in a government building, which had all the charm of a used Styrofoam cup, and yet compared to this place, it had been bustling with life.

Lucía perched on the edge of the hard leather chair, her portfolio clasped in her lap. She’d spent hours choosing her outfit for this interview, finally settling on the cream satin shirt and snug pencil skirt with tan heels. But she’d not counted on how chilly the room was going to be and now—instead of focusing on rehearsing her elevator pitch—she was suddenly, and ridiculously, more worried about whether her nipples were poking through the fabric of her shirt.

It wasn’t exactly the first impression she was aiming to make.

Across the vast expanse of the desk, Javier Esquivel continued to tap away at his laptop, his gaze never leaving the screen. He wore a charcoal suit with sharp lapels. No tie. Hiswhite shirt was open at the throat and glowed against his tan. His cufflinks were tiny gold skulls.

Still, he didn’t look up. Lucía began to wonder if this was some kind of tactic, a test of her assertiveness, or maybe her patience. Or maybe he was just busy. Her résumé sat on top of a pile of others near his right elbow. She wondered where the curly-haired man in the waiting room was in the stack.

Finally, he cleared his throat and closed his laptop and looked up.