Page 78 of South of Justice

ASSET SECURED. FINAL TRANSFER PENDING.

He stared at the message for a moment before hittingSEND. The burst was encrypted, untraceable, routed through two proxy chains. No one reading it would know what or who the asset was.

But they would know Gates had delivered. Or was about to.

The message disappeared, burned by the device’s failsafe protocol. He watched the cursor blink three times. Then nothing.

He closed the cover and leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

This was the part he hated.

Not the lies. Not the covert drops or fake names or burner networks. Those were just tools. What he hated was the flicker. The thing that caught in his chest when the mission stopped being clean.

He’d told himself it was still about the job. Still about justice. Getting the ledger back into the right hands. Ensuring no more people died.

But the edges had started to blur. Ever since Inglis had walked back into the picture. Ever since Lucía Duarte became more than a name on a file.

He rubbed a hand down his face, then he stood, stretching his back, and crossed to the window. Outside, the moonlit coast was still. The ocean whispered in the distance, waves lapping against the rocks. It was almost peaceful.

He scanned the line of the horizon, checked the angle of the shadows. No movement. No lights. He waited another moment, then closed the curtain.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

FORTY-FIVE

Ryan stirred,his cheek pressed against the back of her shoulder. Her skin was warm and smelled so good it made his mouth water. Her hair tickled his nose but he didn’t move.

Her breathing was slow and even. And for once, his was too.

The ceiling fan above them kept up its sluggish rhythm. Outside, no birds yet. Just the hushed quiet of desert pre-dawn.

Ryan closed his eyes again, letting it wash over him. Last night hadn’t been planned. And it sure as hell hadn’t been smart. But it had been real. Not just the sex—the heat of her on top of him, the soft murmur of her voice against his neck—but the moment after, when she didn’t move away. When she stayed curled against him, her fingers pressing against his skin like she was checking he hadn’t vanished.

His arm was draped over her waist now, his hand resting on the bare slope of her stomach. Her skin was soft there, still warm. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath. Slow. Safe.

He didn’t feel safe often. But now?—

A thought tugged. He frowned faintly.

Something felt wrong.

He shifted, carefully lifting his head. His eyes adjusted to the dark. He sat up slowly, trying not to jostle Lucía.

Ryan stood, bare feet hitting the cool floor. He yanked the door open and stepped into the hallway, bare-chested.

The front room was empty. Couch still sagging, the throw blanket folded too neatly.

“Noah?” he called, low and sharp.

Silence.

His heart thudded once, hard. He moved through the kitchen fast—eyes darting, mind already clocking anomalies. The fridge door hung slightly ajar. A half-drunk water bottle sweated on the table. He turned toward the back bedroom.

Empty. No duffel. No boots. No Gates.

His voice came rough: “Jesus Christ.”

Lucía’s voice floated in from the bedroom. “What’s wrong?”