Page 92 of South of Justice

FIFTY-ONE

Ryan had never hatedhis own body more. Every step was a goddamn war.

He leaned against Noah, who was barely tall enough to reach his ribs as he hobbled toward Gates’s SUV. He forced himself to take one step at a time, both physically and mentally. The blood had reached his boot and soaked into his sock, making every footstep feel like he was rubbing away the skin of his heel.

Finally, they reached the bullet-riddled vehicle. The damage was worse than he’d feared. The windshield was a spiderweb. The rear panel had taken two slugs. The front tire was flat, the rubber shredded like cardboard.

He yanked open the driver’s door, then climbed in, wincing as pain shot up his leg. The keys were still in the ignition, and he stared at them for a moment, offering a silent prayer to whatever gods were left in these parts.

Then he reached forward and turned the key.

Nothing. No power. Not even a flicker.

He slumped into the seat and stared at the dashboard. “Fuck.”

Noah stood by the open door, arms wrapped tight across his chest. “You know you’re bleeding, right?”

Ryan looked down at his leg. Most of the blood had dried, but a new wet patch indicated it was still seeping out. Which meant the wound needed stitches, or a bandage at the very least.

He leaned back against the seat, exhaled hard through his nose, and forced himself to focus.

One thing at a time. Stop the bleeding. Keep the kid alive.

Think.

He popped the glovebox with a trembling hand. The med kit that he’d used on Lucía was still there. Partly used, but intact.

Remembering how scared she’d been after she’d been shot—how scared he’d been at the thought of losing her—brought back a wave of fresh guilt. Guilt that felt like it was starting to crystalize into grief. Which meant his mind was already starting to think of her as…

He gripped the door frame and swiveled himself around to face Noah. “Help me out.”

“What are you gonna do?”

He gripped the boy’s bony shoulder. He was at that age where he hadn’t filled out much. But he also looked like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks. It was yet another thing to add to the list of infractions he wanted blood for.

I’m gonna make someone fucking pay for this, he thought.

There was an old, cracked mirror bolted crookedly above the sink in the motel room. Ryan forced himself to his feet, grabbed the edge of the counter, and leaned in close.

The man staring back looked a hundred years old: skin gray beneath the dirt, beard scruff thick and uneven, eyes sunken.

But he was alive.

Supposedly, that was something.

He washed his hands at the rusted sink, then dug through the med kit until he found what he needed: gauze, iodine, a needle and thread.

Tequila would have helped. But there wasn’t any. So he worked raw.

He removed the cloth from the wound, wincing as it stuck to the skin. He uncapped the iodine and poured it over the wound. Sweat broke on his upper lip as he forced the needle through the puckered edges of torn skin.

Once. Twice.

Again.

His hands shook, but he didn’t stop.

When he finished, he wound the gauze around his leg with shaking fingers, cinching it tight enough to make his vision swim for a second.