Page 45 of South of Justice

Ryan stopped at a rusted iron gate and bent as if to tie his boot. Lucía slowed, glanced back.

“What?” she murmured.

“Keep walking,” Ryan said under his breath. “Don’t look. We’ve picked up a tail.”

She stiffened but obeyed.

The man passed, trying to look bored. Then Ryan moved.

He stepped in fast, caught the man by the collar and shoved him into the wall. Not hard. Just enough to jolt the nerves.

“Why’re you tailing us?” Ryan hissed.

The man blinked, startled. Then his expression reset, like a soldier falling into protocol.

“I don’t know what you?—”

Accent: American. Low-level Fed? Contract work? Hard to tell.

“Wrong answer.” Ryan pressed him harder. “Try again.”

The man winced. “I’m just a tourist. You’re out of your mind, man. This is assault.”

Ryan slammed him into the wall again, harder this time. “You’ve got a new watch tan, military cut, and boots that cost more than this whole street. Try again.”

The man gritted his teeth, eyes darting once past Ryan toward the open street. “I was told to observe only. No contact. Just eyes.”

Ryan narrowed his. “Not good enough.”

The man flinched but held his ground. “I’m not cleared to say more.”

Ryan’s voice dropped to something colder. “You’re not cleared to lie either.”

The man hesitated, too long. Ryan drove his fist into his ribs. The guy gasped, sagging under the blow.

“Who the fuck sent you?”

A pause. Then finally, through gritted teeth: “Gates. Tomás Gates.”

Ryan froze. Of course it was him.

That half-second of distraction was all the man needed. He surged forward, shoving Ryan off balance and driving a shoulder into his ribs. Ryan stumbled, pain flaring through his side where he’d thrown the punch.

The man twisted, landed a quick elbow to Ryan’s jaw, and broke free.

Ryan lunged, but the man was already bolting down the street, weaving between the laundry lines and startled pedestrians.

He didn’t look back.

Ryan swore under his breath and turned toward Lucía, who had just rounded the corner.

“What was that?”

He exhaled. “Not cartel. Worse.”

“Worse?”

“Government.” He winced, rubbing his knuckles. “Tomás Gates is in México. And he’s watching us.”