Page 19 of South of Justice

She pushed through the chain-link and crossed the lot, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The office door creaked open before she could knock.

She hadn’t seen Ramiro in more than fifteen years. She expected him to have aged, but not this much. His face was bony, the skin around his jaw gone slack. His once-thick mustache had surrendered to white stubble. He glanced at her, recognition flaring in his eyes. He immediately looked away, as if even holding her gaze was a dangerous thing to do.

“Estamos cerrados.”

She forced herself not to slump with disappointment at his less-than-welcoming reception. “I’m not here for a quote.”

He wiped his hands on a rag, still refusing to look at her. “Lucía Duarte,sí?”

She nodded.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Ramiro spat in the dirt and jerked his head toward the office. She followed him inside. The place was dark, cooler than outside, and smelled like dust and brake fluid.

“Your father,” he said, pouring two glasses of water from a plastic jug, “was the only man I ever knew who tried to stay honest in this business. That made him noble. And an idiot.”

She accepted the glass and took a drink. The water was warm and slightly metallic, but it steadied her. “I need help,” she said. “Just a place. Off the grid. A few days. I’ll be gone before you even remember I was here.”

“You think I don’t know what’s going on?” Ramiro set his glass down harder than was necessary. “You’ve kicked a hornet’s nest,niña. People are asking questions in dark places. Bad people. You bring that here, you burn what’s left of my peace.”

“I didn’t come here to burn anything.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. “I just need somewhere no one will find me.”

His laugh was low and humorless. “Then you are about ten years too late.”

She said nothing. The silence stretched. Ramiro sighed, irritable, and folded his arms. “I can’t shelter you,mija. Not this time. I have a grandson in high school. I won’t put a bullet through his bedroom wall because I feel sorry for the girl who used to curl up in my dispatch seat and fall asleep.”

Lucía stood, shouldering her backpack. Disappointment sunk into her stomach with the weight of a bowling ball, but beneath it was something worse—a hollow, cold emptiness that made it hard to breathe. For a moment, she’d let herself believe he might say yes. That some thread from her past hadn’t frayed completely.

Her mind was already racing. If not here, then where? She had no friends she could trust. No relatives. Every road she could think of ended the same way: with her being caught. And being caught by the kind of men hunting her was a fate worse than death, and one that would certainly end in it.

Her throat was tight, but she forced herself not to sound as fragile as she felt. “I understand.”

She turned for the door and had nearly reached it when Ramiro spoke again.

“There’s a trail station, up near Santiago Apoala.” His voice caught slightly on the name, as if saying it out loud might put him on the hook for something he’d been trying to avoid. “Old smugglers used it during the union crackdowns. No road in, not anymore. Just goat paths. It’s still standing, last I heard.”

Lucía froze, the air rushing back into her lungs so fast it made her dizzy. She turned slowly, searching his face, making sure she hadn’t imagined it.

Ramiro still wouldn’t look at her. The rag in his hand was twisted tight, his knuckles white. His gaze flicked instead to the window, to the empty freight yard beyond, like he was checking for someone who might see him doing this.

For a moment she didn’t move. Part of her was afraid that if she stepped closer, if she spoke too quickly, he’d change his mind and the door would slam shut on her. So she stayed still, her voice measured. “How do I find it?”

Only when he opened a drawer and pulled out a grease-stained map did she let herself believe he might actually mean it.

He unfolded it on the desk and traced a finger north. “Here. You’ll need to hike the rest. Watch for the switchback. It’s easy to miss.”

“Anyone else know it’s there?”

“If they do, they haven’t used it in years. No cell towers. No neighbors. Just wind.”

Lucía folded the map. When she spoke, the words felt like they emanated from somewhere lower down in her body than her throat. “Thank you.”

“You’re your father’s daughter, Lucía. Just try not to die like him.”

She stepped back out into the heat, slipping the paper into her pocket. Her jaw set hard.