Page 90 of South of Justice

He was slipping.

The motel loomed hollow around him, windows shattered, walls cratered by gunfire. A gust of wind rattled a loose panel somewhere, like a coin spinning on tile. He barely registered it.

Then he heard a soft crunch.

Footsteps.

His hand jerked toward the rifle lying near his thigh, fingers numb and slow.

Another crunch. Then?—

A small voice. “Don’t shoot.”

Ryan blinked, vision smeared.

“It’s just me.”

A shape came into focus. Gangly limbs. Red hair. A familiar, wary squint.

“Noah?”

The boy stepped out from behind the burned trash barrel. He was clutching a water bottle in one hand. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

Ryan let out a long, broken sound. Not a laugh or a sob, nothing that contained a recognizable emotion. Just something tearing loose inside him. Relief, maybe, although it felt a million times stronger than any relief he’d experienced before.

He tried to sit up, wincing hard. “Jesus. Kid. What—what are you doing here?”

Noah stepped closer, gaze wary but unafraid. “They left me.”

“Who did?”

“The man with the glasses.”

Ryan pushed his palms flat against the concrete, biting down a grunt as he forced himself upright. His leg buckled.

Noah stepped forward, then immediately paused, as if he didn’t know whether or not to help. As if he didn’t know whether Ryan was friend or foe. In the end, he just held out the water bottle, at a distance too far for Ryan to reach it, but clearly still intended as a gesture of goodwill.

Ryan nodded at him. “Thanks, buddy.”

Noah finally came forward and passed him the bottle.

Ryan took it with shaking fingers. He uncapped it and drank in down in three gulps. Then he tossed the bottle aside, and bent double, hands on his knees and just breathed. Noah was alive. So was he. Lucía, though…

He forced himself back into a standing position and looked down at Noah, squinting through one eye. His time for self-pity and wallowing was over. He had a kid to look after, one who looked like he needed food and water and whatever else kidsneeded to survive. A hug, probably, given what this one had already been through.

Maybe it was the fog of dehydration slowly lifting, or the pain from his leg slowly easing, but something else pushed to the forefront of his brain. “Man with glasses?”

Noah nodded.

Something cold slithered through Ryan’s veins. “Was he Mexican?”

Noah nodded again. “He told me to wait. Then he just left, right before the gunshots started. I think he forgot I was still in the room. I hid under the bed.”

Ryan stared at him. “Was he with the other man? The tall one? The American?”

Noah shook his head. “No. It was just him.”

Ryan swore under his breath. Pain sharpened behind his eyes. “Are you sure, Noah?”