Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
Ryan drove like the devil was on his heels, which, judging by the bullet holes riddling the truck and the woman bleeding out beside him, wasn’t far from the truth. The rearview mirror showed nothing but empty road and swirling dust behind. No one was tailing them, at least for now.
Lucía was slumped against the passenger seat, her face ghost-pale, lips bloodless.
Her fingers clutched a balled-up T-shirt she’d taken from her backpack against her shoulder, blood soaking through the fabric in sticky waves.
Her breath came in shallow, rasping gasps, each one more labored than the last.
“You still with me?” he asked, knuckles white on the steering wheel as he took a sharp curve too fast.
“Yeah,” she whispered, voice thin and shredded with pain. “Bullet’s still in, I think. Burns like hell.”
“Don’t talk. Just hold pressure. We’ll stop soon. I’ll get a look at it.”
They hit a patch of uneven road, and the whole truck jolted. Lucía let out a strangled sound, curling further into herself. Ryan’s gut clenched. He needed to get her off the road, now.
He scanned the roadside and spotted a narrow dirt turnoff veiled behind scrubby trees. Without warning, he yanked the wheel and veered off. Gravel spat up under the tires as the truck rumbled to a stop beneath a cluster of mesquite.
He killed the engine then jumped out and sprinted around to her side. The door stuck, then gave. Lucía tried to move but slumped sideways, the blood loss catching up to her. He caught her just in time, bracing her against his chest.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Come on, Lucía. Stay with me.”
He laid her out carefully on his jacket, spread across the dirt and gravel. Her skin felt clammy beneath his fingers, breath fluttering like a baby bird. She winced as he peeled back the blood-soaked T-shirt, revealing a wound high in her shoulder—angry, swollen, still seeping red.
“This is gonna hurt like fuck,” he said, pulling out his pocket knife and lighter.
Lucía gave him a faint, wry smile. “That your version of bedside manner?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He sterilized the blade and carefully widened the tear in the skin, hoping to spot the bullet. Nothing visible. It was lodged too deep. Her body jerked under his hands, a cry catching in her throat.
“Damn it,” he swore under his breath. “It’s too far in. I can’t get it.”
“Don’t stop,” she panted. “We can’t go to a hospital. We can’t.”
“Then what the hell do you suggest, huh? You bleed out in the dirt?”
Her hand found his wrist. Weak, but steady. “Just…stop the bleeding. Buy us some time.”
He wrapped the wound as best he could with gauze and tied it off with a torn strip of his own shirt. It wasn’t enough. Her pulse was too fast. Her skin was losing its color.
A low groan escaped her lips. She was fading.
And then he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Faint, but growing louder.
Ryan’s head snapped up. He was on his feet, pistol out, finger on the trigger. There was a plume of dust in the distance, rising off the road they’d just come down.
A vehicle, approaching fast.
Ryan stepped in front of Lucía, shielding her with his body. There were no trees. No cover. Nowhere left to run. If it was the mercs again, this was it.
He squared his stance and raised his pistol.
The SUV crested the slope and began to slow. Its shape came into focus—big, boxy, government-issue. Tires crunched over gravel as it rolled to a stop ten yards away.
The driver’s door opened. A tall man stepped out slowly, both hands raised in plain view. He was broad-shouldered, olive-skinned, maybe mid-forties. Wearing tactical pants, boots, a soft-shell jacket zipped halfway up. A U.S. Marshals badge swung from a lanyard around his neck, catching the light.
His face was unmistakable.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Tomás Gates.
“Easy, Ryan,” Gates said, calm as ever.
Disbelief slammed through Ryan like a punch. The gun didn’t waver. “How the hell did you find us?”
“We’ve been following cartel signals. This area lit up like Christmas when that tax office got hit.”
Lucía stirred weakly behind him. Ryan’s glance flicked to her, then back to Gates.
“She needs a doctor.”
“Yeah,” Gates said. “And she’s not gonna make it much longer unless we move now.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because you don’t have a choice.”
Ryan’s jaw clenched. The silence stretched taut.
Finally, he lowered the gun. Not all the way, but enough.
He turned, crouched down beside Lucía. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips were cracked, whispering something he couldn’t make out. He lifted her again, slower this time. Her head fell against his chest.
Gates opened the back door of his vehicle. “Put her in. I know a place we can take her.”
Ryan hesitated just a breath longer. Then he nodded.
He eased Lucía into the SUV. Gates moved around to the front and slid behind the wheel.
Ryan got into the back seat, never taking his eyes off him.
Trust would come later. Right now, he had to keep her breathing.
Ryan crouched in the back of the SUV, knees braced against the seat in front.
Lucía lay across the bench seat, her head in his lap, skin slick with sweat and grit.
Blood stained the collar of her shirt and had soaked through the bandage he’d hastily wrapped around her shoulder.
The fabric clung damp to her side, and her breath came shallow and fast.
The bullet was still inside.
“You got a med kit?”
Gates’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reached across and opened the glove box. Pulled out a white plastic box.
Ryan grabbed the box, resting it on the front seat console. He opened it and did a quick stocktake: bandages, gauze pads, alcohol wipes, a sheet of ibuprofen, an instant cold pack, some scissors, gloves and a bottle of iodine. Better than nothing. But nothing that would treat a bullet wound.
He ripped open a couple of gauze pads and held them against the wound, applying pressure with both hands. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Lucía blinked up at him, dazed. “Not your fault.”
She was trying to be brave, but he could see the strain in her clenched jaw, the sweat gathered in her hairline. She’d lost too much blood. Her skin was clammy and pale.
Gates was speaking again, but Ryan had drowned him out.
His focus was on Lucía’s face. It was drawn and sweat-slicked. Every time the SUV hit a bump, her lashes fluttered like she was caught between dreams and pain. Her hand twitched against his thigh.
He couldn’t stop replaying the moment he’d heard her say I’m hit. The words had landed like a gunshot to his own gut. That instant, sickening jolt, as if the ground had been yanked out from beneath him.
It wasn’t just adrenaline or shock. It was something deeper: the creeping realization that he might lose her. Not just a partner, or a source of intel.
Her.
The thought scraped at something raw and vulnerable he hadn’t let himself examine—not in years. He’d watched too many people vanish behind the veil of violence and bad timing already. He couldn’t do it again. Not with her.
He tightened his grip on her hand. She didn’t stir. Please, he thought, and didn’t know who he was asking.
He glanced up to find Gates watching him from the front seat.
Ryan looked up, voice rough. “Why the hell have you been tailing us?”
Gates didn’t look away from the road. “Watching,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
“Why?”
Gates exhaled. “Because I’m hunting the same thing you are. Noah Carmichael.”
The name landed hard.
Lucía was barely conscious now, blood soaking the seat beneath her. “You’re not after Ryan?” she said, voice hoarse.
“No,” Gates said. “And right now I think we’ve all got more urgent problems.”
“Can you take us somewhere safe?” Ryan asked.
Gates nodded once. “I know just the place.”