Chapter 51
FIFTY-ONE
Ryan had never hated his 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.
It was done. He allowed himself a moment of rest, bracing himself over the sink. Then he turned and hobbled out of the bathroom into the bullet-strewn main room.
Noah sat on the bed, cross-legged, nibbling the protein bar Ryan had found in the glovebox.
It looked rock hard, but the kid wasn’t complaining.
Ryan had a brief flare of concern about how much all of this was going to fuck him up in the future.
Most kids his age only saw blood and bullets and the insides of safehouses from behind a gaming console on their sofa. He was seeing it all for real.
He forced himself to shelve that thought for another day and focus on the more pressing issues.
Okay. Leg bandaged. Water and food found, sort of. What’s next?
Get this damn boot off. His blood-soaked sock has caused a blister on his heel to form. And he wasn’t going anywhere if he couldn’t walk.
He braced one hand on the chair, bent forward, and tugged at the laces. The motion was slow, mechanical. When the boot came free, he saw that his sock was stiff with blood, the edge crusted brown. As he went to set the boot aside, something caught his eye.
Inside, near the heel, something glinted faintly—just a flash of gray plastic under the insole.
He frowned. Reached in. His fingers brushed something smooth and foreign, wedged beneath the liner. He pried it loose, pulling it into the light.
Small. Flat. Black casing.
Ryan froze, the air leaving his lungs in one long, silent breath.
It was a tracker.
He turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the thin seam along its edge. A GPS beacon, military-grade, maybe, or federal. This wasn’t cartel tech.
He knew this kind of thing. He’d used this kind of thing.
“Gates,” he whispered. “You motherfucker.”
He should have known the marshal would’ve pulled a trick like this. The man’s paranoia had always run deep. The bastard had never trusted anyone, least of all Ryan. He hadn’t been the one to betray him, but he had been keeping him on a little digital leash.
And this time, Ryan had never been more relieved to be the object of his suspicions.
Because it meant if Gates was still out there—and if he was still alive—he’d probably be following the signal. And if he was, it would only be a matter of time before he showed up here.
It was a lot of ifs, but for the first time, he felt that maybe not all was lost.
Ryan pushed to his feet, biting back a groan as the stitched-up thigh protested every inch. He limped to the doorway, stared out at the lot.
On the opposite side of the lot from the ruined SUV was that battered pickup. Hood warped, tires soft. A relic of someone else’s bad luck.
He could try it. It might even run.
Gas would be a problem. Food, too. But he could load Noah in, point them toward the Sierra, or hell, even north. Pick a direction, any direction, and vanish.
Start over. Again.
He leaned against the doorframe, exhaling heavily. He didn’t want to admit how tempting it was. Because what else was left?
Lucía was gone. Taken by mercenaries working for someone he still couldn’t name. Phalanx Group didn’t play small games, and Ryan couldn’t even guess where they’d taken her.
He rubbed a hand down his face. Grit clung to his skin. He could take the kid, head for Belize or somewhere. Trade the last of their cash for a ride. Get them both new names. Try to carve out something quiet and human for once in his goddamn life.
But even as he thought it, he knew.
He wouldn’t leave her.
Lucía had put her life on the line—for Noah, for the truth. For him, even when she shouldn’t have. She had every reason to run, and she’d stayed. Again and again.
He looked down at the tracker, still clenched in his hand.
So maybe now it was his turn.