Page 84 of South of Justice

She leaned closer, just slightly. “You think I’m a mistake, Ryan?”

He met her eyes. “No. I think you’re a fuse. And I already lit you once.”

Her breath caught, just faintly.

His hand was still on the wheel. Hers came up, brushing the edge of the seat between them, not quite touching him, but close. “You didn’t have to come this far,” he said.

She blinked, turned toward him slightly. “What?”

“Our deal. Back in the cabin. You were supposed to help me find Noah. After that, you were free to go.”

Lucía didn’t speak.

“I’ve dragged you halfway across México. Gotten you shot at. Got you sleeping in dingy motels.”

Still nothing from her. But her jaw tensed just slightly.

Ryan exhaled. “I guess I just wanted to say…thank you.”

Lucía scoffed. “You really think I’m still here because of a deal?”

“I don’t know why you’re still here.”

Her eyes held his. “Neither do I.”

He nodded, slow.

“Still,” he said, voice low. “You stayed.”

Her mouth parted—maybe to argue, maybe to soften. But whatever she was going to say disappeared when he leaned in.

Their mouths met, tentative for just half a second. Then it turned hungry. Lucía’s hand came up to his jaw, fingers curling against rough stubble. Ryan’s fingers found the side of her throat, then her waist. She pulled him closer over the center console, and for a breathless moment, it felt like they weren’t inan SUV on the side of a dangerous highway. It felt like they were the only two people in México.

The kiss deepened. Then she pulled back, chest rising fast.

Ryan rested his forehead against hers.

Lucía didn’t move. “We’re not making it easy,” she said, voice unsteady.

“No,” he agreed. “We’re not.”

FORTY-SEVEN

The lightthrough the motel blinds was washed out and yellow, streaking across the cracked linoleum floor in slats.

The man sat on the edge of the bed, a disassembled Glock in his lap and a towel beneath it. His movements were steady. Practiced.

Barrel. Slide. Spring. Wipe. Oil. Reassemble.

Beside the bed, the boy sat on a worn cushion, thumbing through a battered comic book. Bare feet. Quiet. No complaints.

Good. Quiet kids were easier.

He checked the chamber, racked the slide, set the pistol aside. And waited.

The memory scratched at him: standing in the hallway at that safehouse last night, watching the door crack open just enough to see them tangled together—Ryan and Lucía.

Sleeping. Her head on his chest. His hand curled protectively at her waist.