Page 82 of South of Justice
Ryan exhaled through his nose. “Cartel proxy?”
“Or local muscle playing uniform.”
He adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Either way, they’re watching for someone.”
Lucía’s hand slid toward her Colt. She didn’t draw, just rested her fingers near it.
The man on the left raised a hand, flagging them down.
Ryan rolled to a stop, one hand still on the gearstick. “Here we go,” he said under his breath.
The man walked up slow, one hand resting near his belt. Not on a weapon, not yet. His other hand lifted lazily in a greeting.
Ryan rolled the window down halfway.
“Buen día,” the man said. His voice was smooth, almost cheerful. “¿A dónde van?”
“Sur,” Ryan said, thick accent intentional. “Just…Salina Cruz. Vacation.”
The man smiled. “American?”
Ryan nodded. “Sí.”
The man leaned in slightly, looking past Ryan toward Lucía. His gaze lingered a second too long. “Y ella?”
Ryan glanced sideways. “Cousin.”
Lucía didn’t blink.
The man’s eyes slid back to Ryan. “Papers?”
Ryan shrugged. “Lost wallet.Rentamos el camión de un amigo. No tenemos problemas.” He kept the smile thin. Friendly. Useless.
Behind them, the second man was moving now, walking slowly along the passenger side, pretending to look at the tires, the bumper.
Ryan heard the soft click of Lucía slipping her Colt free, low against her thigh.
The first man tilted his head. “You look like someone.”
Ryan chuckled. “I get that a lot.”
The man’s smile didn’t move.
There was a long pause. Then the second man called something from behind the truck—too soft for Ryan to catch.
The first man didn’t react. Not yet. The air between them turned solid.
Ryan’s thumb tapped the wheel. Then he said quietly: “You ever work with Delgado? DEA logistics, south branch?”
The man blinked.
Ryan leaned slightly toward him. “Tell him Langston says he still owes me a bottle of mezcal.”
The man stared. For a breath too long. Then he stepped back.
“Buen viaje,” he said flatly. He slapped the side of the truck.
Ryan didn’t wait. He eased off the brake and rolled forward.
