Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
From the moment Lázaro handed him the flash drive, Ryan had been moving. He drove south to Guerrero Negro, then from there he paid cash to a man with a skiff to cross the narrow sea at dawn. They docked at Santa Rosalía, a dust-coated town clinging to the coast.
From there, a night bus inland. Three hours of bouncing over half-paved roads beside a family of goats and a drunk who sang corridos in his sleep. At first light, he hit the Guaymas airport and bribed his way onto a cargo flight heading toward Oaxaca. The plane touched down just after four p.m.
Then came the final leg.
A rusted Nissan 4x4 rented under a false name took him most of the way up into the Sierra Norte. The last ten kilometers were too rough for the truck’s suspension, so he parked at a forgotten trailhead and went the rest of the way on foot.
Now, after nearly a full day of nonstop movement, he was deep in the Oaxacan highlands, somewhere in the misty folds of the Sierra Norte. The daylight was fading. His margin was closing.
The sun had disappeared behind the jagged peaks, leaving the forest in deep cobalt shadow.
Ryan moved fast, but was careful to avoid a twisted ankle or burning through too much of his water supply.
The GPS on his burner phone had cut out an hour ago, and there was no cell signal.
But he had Lázaro’s instructions from the flash drive he’d given him, and his own hand-sketched map gave him a rough heading.
He adjusted the strap of his pack. Inside: water, protein bars, a compact med kit, backup ammo and his Walther PPK.
His breath came even. His boots crunched pine needles. Somewhere far off, an owl called.
Ryan crouched by a narrow bend in the trail and studied the terrain ahead.
The trees thinned here. There was smoke on the wind, thin and faint, like someone had let a cooking fire die down slowly. Not enough to be careless. But just enough to mark the presence of life.
He checked the wind. South-to-north. Good. He’d stay downwind.
He moved forward, slower now. On either side of the trail, the underbrush was disturbed in places—unnaturally symmetrical gaps, the kind made by a human hand.
Ryan’s eyes caught the faint glint of a wire strung knee-height between two branches.
He froze, followed the line, and saw the small metal canister tucked under a rotted stump.
Nonlethal. Flashbang, maybe. He disarmed it with a stick, careful not to shift his weight too far off the trail.
She was expecting company.
Another thirty meters forward, he stepped over what looked like an innocuous pile of leaves. Beneath it, a shallow pit lined with broken bottles and thorns. Crude, but effective. Ryan felt the smallest curl of admiration. This wasn’t just paranoia. This was strategy. She’d been busy up here.
At the tree line, he pulled the pistol from his pack and chambered a round with quiet, practiced hands.
He didn’t like carrying it drawn. But walking into an unknown perimeter, alone and outgunned, meant bending rules he used to live by.
He kept it low and close as he advanced, every step tested before committing.
There were signs of passage here: a broken branch, the faint indent of a boot print in the loam. Recent.
The forest fell away to reveal a gulch in the hillside. The cabin sat in its hollow, almost perfectly camouflaged. A sloped metal roof with a small solar panel patched on one side. No light was visible from within.
But she was in there. He could feel it.
Ryan eased behind a boulder and pulled a monocular from his side pouch. Through the lens, he scanned the perimeter. One entrance. No motion. The trail leading to the door had been brushed recently, but not well enough to hide the signs from someone who knew what to look for.
He holstered the scope and backed off three steps, deciding on an approach. That’s when he felt it. The chill up his spine. The sense of being watched.
He turned, too late.
A sharp voice behind him: “Don’t move.”
Then the pressure of a gun barrel between his shoulder blades.
“Drop the weapon. Slowly.”
Ryan didn’t argue.
He let the PPK fall to the mossy ground. Raised his hands.
Behind him, a woman stepped into view, shadows clinging to her like a second skin. Her dark hair was tied back, her expression unreadable. The gun in her hand didn’t waver.
“You have three seconds to tell me who you are,” she said, in softly-accented English, “or I paint the trees with your skull.”
Ryan’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.
“Nice to meet you, too, Lucía.”