Page 85 of South of Justice

He could have taken her then, and he almost did. But Ryan wasn’t the kind of man you crossed when he was half-awake and holding something he cared about.

That would have been sloppy. Risky.

The boy was the better play. A clean grab, no noise, maximum leverage.

He stood slowly, walked to the window, tilted the blinds to scan the lot. It was empty. He checked his burner phone again. One unread message:They’re on their way.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned toward the boy.

The boy looked up at him, eyes wide but calm. “Are we going somewhere?”

The man shook his head, almost gently. “Nope.” He picked up the pistol again. “But I am.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Ryan pulledthe SUV to a stop beneath a scraggly mesquite tree, a good thirty yards from the faded motel sign.

MOTEL PUNTA ROJA.Bienvenidos.Habitaciones con A/C. The “A/C” part was scratched out.

He killed the engine, and the silence that followed was almost loud. There were no dogs barking, no TVs buzzing behind open windows. All he could hear was the thud of his own pulse.

“This is it,” he said, eyes fixed on the motel’s peeling stucco exterior. The place looked like it hadn’t seen actual occupancy in years. There was a half-burned trash barrel near the front lot, and a vending machine in the breezeway with no logo left.

They sat in silence for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled. Lucía scanned the balconies, the breezeway, the cracked asphalt. “Looks empty.”

Ryan looked across at her. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

She exhaled slowly. “I’m sure. We’ll go in, check it’s legit and Noah’s safe. Then I’ll give him the laptop and the password and this will all be over.”

They got out, doors clicking soft behind them. The sun was brutal. The pavement shimmered.

Ryan reached for the PPK in his waistband, checked the slide with a quick snap, then tucked it beneath the hem of his shirt. Lucía mirrored him, drawing her Colt. She checked the chamber, thumbed the safety, then slid it back into her waistband at the small of her back.

They crossed the lot on foot, quiet, deliberate, eyes constantly moving. An old pickup truck sat at the far end of the parking lot, cab empty. A stack of broken pallets leaned against the office wall.

Ryan looked up at the middle level of the motel. One open curtain fluttered for a moment, then stilled. They moved down the breezeway, shoulder to shoulder, scanning the windows and doors.

Room 6 was dead ahead. Paint peeled in jagged flakes. A damp towel hung from the railing. The wind shifted. Heat pressed in close.

Lucía reached for the door handle. Ryan stopped her. “Let me.”

She stepped back, gun drawn low and tight. He turned the knob slowly, gun in his other hand, ready.

Unlocked.

He pushed the door open.

It was dark inside. Ryan took two steps in, gun sweeping left to right.

The room was empty. Just a bed, rumpled like someone had sat on it and left. A table and a broken chair. A half-filled ashtray. A comic book lying abandoned on the floor.

Lucía’s throat went dry. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, already backing toward the door.

That’s when the first window exploded.

They both dropped instantly, glass raining down like razors. A burst of suppressed fire tore through the wall. Ryan took cover beside the door frame, heart hammering.