Page 46 of South of Justice

“I saw his name in a news brief,” she said, her voice tight. “Gates. He gave a statement about cross-border coordination. I didn’t think he’d be here, though.”

Ryan grabbed her elbow. “Come on. We’re not sleeping outside tonight.”

Ten minutes later, they ducked into a crumbling hostel off another side street, past a rusted bell and a bored girl at the front desk who didn’t ask for ID. Cash only. Room 12.

Lucía threw the bolt and dropped her bag on the bed. Ryan slumped into the only chair.

His ribs ached. His jaw throbbed. His nerves were screaming. It was too early in this run for surveillance teams and federal tails.

He looked up to find Lucía watching him. Her expression had changed. There was a small frown etched between her eyebrows. She looked almost…worried.

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing on the cut at the corner of his mouth. “You’re bleeding,” she said, voice lower now, more focused.

Ryan touched his lip with two fingers and looked at the smear of red. “It’s nothing.”

She didn’t move away. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, but didn’t stop her as she leaned in, brushing her thumb gently against his cheek to angle his face toward the light. Her fingers were steady and warm.

It was the closest they’d been since the cabin, and it felt different now. Her breath grazed his skin. His heart picked up speed.

Then she stepped back, clearing her throat.

Ryan shifted in his chair, trying to shake off the moment. “What the fuck’s in this ledger, Lucía?” he asked, voice rough. “Why’s it so damn important?”

She turned her head away and crossed her arms. “It’s hard to explain to…” she trailed off, but it was clear what she was going to say.To someone like you.

He gave her his bestdon’t fuck with melook. “I’m not an idiot. Try me.”

She sighed. “Think of it as a diary.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A diary?”

She nodded. “Except, instead of feelings, it’s full of blood money, false invoices, and ghost companies.” She looked back at him, meeting his eyes, but with a guarded expression. “My job was to make it look clean. Now, it’s a loaded gun.”

He exhaled, propping both his hands on the armrest. “Great. And it’s pointed right at us.”

The SUV idled in a patch of shade just off the main road, heat shimmering over the hood. Deputy U.S. Marshal Tomás Gatessat in the driver’s seat, field tablet resting on his knee, the screen flashing red:

Agent: SIGNAL LOST.

He didn’t swear. Just stared at the blinking alert for a moment, jaw flexing. Then he let out a slow breath through his nose.

“Inglis made him,” he muttered.

Carlos Reyes, his local tech liaison guy, was in the passenger seat. He gave a low grunt of agreement. “He’s ex-marshal. Instinct like that doesn’t retire, right?”

Gates didn’t answer. He was staring at a still image from earlier surveillance. It was grainy and sun-washed, but clear enough to make out a man and a woman, walking fast out of a gas station. One was Ryan. And the woman beside him…

Lucía Duarte.

She was angled away from the camera, but Gates knew. The way she carried herself—alert, precise, like someone who’d spent years waiting for the world to catch up with her—was unmistakable.

Reyes leaned closer. “So it’s really her.”

Gates nodded once. “She’s been off the map for years. Everyone assumed she was dead. Or protected. Or both.”

“What changed?”