Chapter 50
FIFTY
Ryan’s head lolled sideways against the pockmarked stucco, breath shallow, the pain in his leg growing by the minute. He’d torn a strip from his shirt to slow the bleeding, but it wasn’t doing much anymore. His throat was dry as bone. His tongue felt cracked against his teeth.
Every muscle ached, but it was his stomach that clawed hardest: an emptiness deep and gnawing, twisting beneath his ribs. He couldn’t remember when he last ate. When he last drank more than a sip of lukewarm water.
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 kids needed 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?”
The boy nodded. “He’s the one who took me from the beach house. He said we were going to see my grandma.”
Ryan exhaled. He felt like he’d been punched in the guts.
It was Reyes. Not Gates. Not the man Ryan had spent the last day cursing in his own head.
Not the old friend he’d accused. Reyes had set this whole trap.
He’d taken Lucía and had left the boy behind like a duffel bag he didn’t feel like carrying.
Ryan let his head fall back against the scorched wall, a hoarse laugh escaping his throat. It wasn’t funny. Not even close.
That sly little bastard. He’d been the asset the whole fucking time.
Lucía had no idea how long they’d been driving. There were no voices in the back with her. Just the hum of the engine, the occasional static crackle of a comms radio up front, and the muted percussion of tires over pitted tarmac.
She pressed her cheek against the seat and tried to orient herself by sound. The tires had changed tone. Less crunch, more hum. Asphalt. They were still moving at speed. Still somewhere rural. She counted trees by the rhythm of shadow through the canvas. One-two. One-two. Sparse.
“Almost there,” someone muttered from the front seat.
A second voice. “She still out?”
“Who knows? She hasn’t said a word.”
“She’s got the code, right?”
“That’s what Reyes says.” They didn’t speak with fear. They spoke with confidence. Like she was a solved problem. Like the rest was just procedure. “They say it’s all in her head. That she’s the passphrase.”
Lucía let her head slump. But her mind was racing.
Reyes. The little federale? He was behind all this?
Bile burned the back of her throat. She forced it down.
It’s always the fucking quiet ones.
She heard the buzz of a cellphone beside her. The third man—the one closest to her—answered it immediately. She recognized Reyes voice. “Yes, sir?”
There was a pause, then Reyes said, “No, she’s intact. A little banged up, but breathing. That’s what you wanted, right?”
Another pause. Someone was speaking on the other end of the line. She strained to hear the voice coming through the speaker, but it was too faint.
“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks. Tried to bite one of my guys. Nearly succeeded.” A dry chuckle.
Lucía’s fingers clenched. The zip ties bit deeper.
“Understood,” Reyes said. “We’ll be at the safehouse in five. Minimal exposure. No comms until then.”
Then: a click. The line went dead.
The SUV hit a pothole. Her head cracked softly against the seat frame behind her. She forced herself to stay calm. Think. Her legs were free. A mistake? Or intentional?
Maybe they didn’t see her as a threat. And maybe they were right.
Maybe she really was helpless.
The vehicle slowed. Turned. Gravel crunched under the wheels.
She braced herself. Outside, a gate groaned open. Chains rattled. The SUV drove through. Somewhere outside the canvas hood, a new sound rose: the sharp bark of a dog.
She could smell salt in the air again. Ocean. Not far from the coast, then. Not far from where it all began.
She curled her fingers slowly. Felt the blood moving back into her wrists. Every inch ached. But it was better than numbness.
Because pain meant she was alive. And as long as she was alive, so was the fight.