Page 50 of South of Justice

His jaw flexed. He didn’t like variables. And Ryan Inglis was now a very large variable. Worse: Lucía clearly trusted him. That was dangerous.

He tapped a knuckle against the edge of the desk.

Killing Inglis would be easy. But that wouldn’t solve the larger issue. He didn’t want Lucía dead. Not yet. Not likethat. He wanted her cornered. Bent, not broken. There was a difference.

And now she’d given him something useful: she’d shown her weakness.

Connection.

That was something he could use.

Javier closed the surveillance feed and opened a blank message window. He began to type, slow and measured, each keystroke deliberate. A command for his contact embedded in the Salina Cruz municipal offices. A new file was being prepared. A new trail. One that would seem plausible, even urgent.

He would let them find it. He would let them believe they were still winning.

And when they were exactly where he wanted them—desperate and divided—then he would pull the thread.

Lucía would come back to him and bring his stolen property back with her. One way or another.

THIRTY-TWO

They hitthe coast just after sunrise. Salina Cruz was a port city perched on the edge of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec. Port cranes lined the horizon like skeletal giants. The main road ran downhill toward the port, lined with mechanic shops, taco stands, and boarded-up storefronts. The bus station café where they got off had no real walls, just a cracked tile floor and a faded Coca-Cola awning that flapped like a sad flag.

Ryan stood by the open frame, trying not to lean on the sticky counter. Gulls circled the nearby dumpsters, their cries high and shrill, wings casting shadows over the road.

He tried not to look at Lucía. She was in the booth behind him, hunched over her laptop, hair pulled into a low bun. The morning light caught the soft shadows under her eyes and the curve of her jaw. She wore a faded gray tee and jeans dusted with road grime, but somehow she still looked…incredible.

“Do you ever blink when you’re in data mode?” he asked.

“Do you ever shut up when you’re bored?” she shot back, still typing.

He smiled. “Touché.”

Lucía exhaled through her nose, eyes flicking over the screen. “I followed the Salina Cruz signal to a shell company,” she said. “They filed a storage lease, the address is behind a dead shipping yard. And a power meter there just came online.”

Ryan frowned. “So someone’s using a fake address.”

“Or hiding in one,” Lucía said. “Could be nothing. Could be everything.”

A gust of wind pushed through the café, bringing with it the sharp, greasy tang of fish guts and engine oil.

Ryan nodded, rolling his shoulder against the weight of his gear. He was still half-distracted by her. “Either way, we check it.”

The place looked like it had been abandoned mid-apocalypse. Rusted corrugated siding. A chained-up gate. Concrete walls mottled with salt bloom.

Ryan knelt by the gate, checking the padlock. “It’s been opened recently,” he murmured.

“Footprints, too,” Lucía said. “Somebody’s been through here.”

They scaled the fence two minutes later, boots crunching on gravel as they crossed into the yard. A squat building sat at the back, windowless and square. Ryan moved first, sweeping the perimeter, weapon drawn.

“Stay behind me,” he said, not looking back. She muttered something, but he heard her soft footfalls trailing him as he rounded the side of the building.

They slipped inside through a broken door. The interior was hollow: concrete floor, old crates stacked along one wall.

Ryan moved through each room, clearing it fast. Empty.

He lowered his weapon. “Nothing.”