You Can Run (Love on the Run #3)

Prologue

FIVE DAYS EARLIER

The concrete floor was wet. The man in the chair wasn’t sure if it was sweat, spilled beer, or the water they’d dumped over his head ten minutes ago.

His vision blurred in and out, his swollen eye refusing to open, his good one tracking movement through a haze of tears. The duct tape cut into his wrists.

Officer Trent Haley was having a very bad day indeed.

A heavyset Latino man paced in front of him, shirtless despite the cold in the back room. A black handprint tattoo stretched over his chest—the outline unmistakable even through the dim light.

La Mano Negra.

The torturer flicked open a switchblade with a little snick of metal.

Trent sobbed through the gag, choking on his own spit.

With a small grunt of impatience, the torturer tugged the gag down. “Owe is owe, Oficial. You played with money that wasn't yours. Now you pay.”

“I’ll pay!” Trent shrieked. “I swear—just give me time—”

The backhand caught him across the jaw and he tasted blood. But through the pain, a darker, sharper instinct took over.

“WAIT!” Trent screamed, spit flying. “I have something better than money. I have the girl you all want.”

The torturer paused, the blade hovering a millimeter from Trent’s eyelid. He tilted his head. “What girl?”

“The one who gutted your operation thirteen years ago. The one who survived the Florida storm.” Trent was hyperventilating, but a sick sort of triumph leaked into his voice. “She’s been living under my roof. Jessica Meeks. She thinks she’s hidden, but I know exactly who she is.”

The torturer’s eyes sharpened. The boredom vanished, replaced by a predatory focus.

For months now, Trent had watched his girlfriend Jessica in the quiet moments of their life together.

He’d seen her touch that ring on a chain under her shirt when she thought he was asleep.

He’d seen her touch herself, too, right after, and he knew she hadn’t been thinking about him when she did it.

He’d seen the way her eyes went distant, looking for a ghost he couldn't compete with.

She’d been cagey with him about her past from the very start.

She never spoke of it. She changed the subject or invented some reason to leave the room whenever he brought it up.

So, not long after they’d first met, he’d run a full background check on her.

What little had come back had only increased his suspicion of her past. He’d dug deeper, searching law enforcement databases, looking for clues to her past. Finally, he’d turned up an old federal indictment and pieced together the story of the Chicago ballerina who turned rat and the cartel runner who’d vanished with her.

He’d kept it as his ace in the hole—a way to own her if she ever tried to leave.

But now, he needed it to breathe.

“She’s in Corpus,” he blurted. “She’s stripping at The Bare Minimum.”

“And the boyfriend?” the torturer asked. “The one they called El Fantasma?”

Trent’s jaw worked. He thought of the ruby ring again, the one she wore for a man who was supposed to be dead. If he was going down, he was taking that “ghost” with him.

“Daniel Castano,” Trent hissed. “He’s alive. He’s in Agua Dulce, going by Dante Cruz. I tracked him down months ago. They’re right here. Both of them.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The torturer slid the blade away. He reached down and patted Trent’s bruised cheek, almost tenderly.

“You’ve been a very busy boy, Trent.”

He snapped his fingers. Someone sliced the tape from Trent's wrists. Trent collapsed to the floor, his body shaking with relief.

“Get out,” the torturer said. “If I see you again, I won't be looking for a trade.”

Trent scrambled for the door. In the alleyway, his badge fell from his pocket, clattering onto the wet asphalt.

PRESENT

The prison van hummed down a cracked desert road an hour east of El Paso. The early light was thin, too weak to chase the shadows from the parched hills.

Inside, the heat had already climbed past uncomfortable. Four men occupied the steel box: two guards, a quiet inmate chained ankle-to-wrist, and the man shackled to the floor in a waist chain.

José Ferrera—El Merc as he was also known—hadn’t moved since they’d loaded him. Thick grey braids hung down his chest, secured with cheap rubber bands. He sat with his hands palms-up on his knees. His eyes were open, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the reinforced walls.

The younger guard shifted, his baton rapping against his thigh. He had wire-rimmed glasses and a constellation of acne on his cheeks. “You’d think a guy like that would look… I don’t know. Meaner.”

The older guard didn't look up from his clipboard. “He’s old-school cartel. Back when they still used machetes.”

El Merc didn't blink.

“I heard he made a guy eat his own—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” the older guard snapped.

Ferrera’s lips curled.

The van hit a pothole, rattling the glass. A voice crackled over the intercom. “Checkpoint’s backed up. Rerouting west to the old federal track off I-10.”

The older guard scowled. “You sure that’s secure?”

“Ten, fifteen miles off the main road, then we’re clear.”

The van turned hard, causing gravel to spray the undercarriage like buckshot. Silence settled in the back. Ferrera turned his head, tracking the blurred landscape through a dust-crusted window.

The federal road twisted through stunted trees and grey scrub. There were no signs of civilization, only the shimmer of heat and the smell of hot diesel.

In the cabin, the radio dissolved into static. “Unit five. Check in.”

The van suddenly slowed.

The first shot didn’t sound like a gun. It was a sharp pop, followed by the violent jerk of the chassis as the front left tire disintegrated. The younger guard slammed into the wall. The clipboard flew out of the older guard’s hands and skidded across the floor.

The vehicle fishtailed into the dirt and the engine died. For two heartbeats, the world was silent.

Then came the hum. A high, mechanical whine that rose in pitch. A drone.

Something heavy clunked onto the roof. The younger guard’s eyes went wide. “That’s–shit–that’s–”

The back doors blew open.

They moved with the precision of a clockwork mechanism. Four shooters in tan tactical gear, their faces masked and M-4s leveled.

The older guard reached for his sidearm. A single round caught him in the throat. He didn't scream; he just slumped, a wet sound escaping his lungs.

The younger one scrambled, trying to find cover under the bench. The second shot took him just above the collarbone. He hit the floor, twitching in the dust.

One of the shooters stepped into the van. He was tall, his hands bare. He looked directly at El Merc and said, “We got him.”

A shorter figure climbed in. It was a woman, light on her feet, her hair braided tightly to her skull. She crouched beside Ferrera. From her boot, she pulled a narrow steel key and slipped it into the shackle lock at his waist and wrists.

The cuffs opened with a soft click. Then she sliced through the heavy duty zip-ties anchoring him to the floor. She didn’t offer a hand, she just watched him, her eyes pale and flat.

El Merc looked at his free hands. He flexed them, feeling the blood return to his fingers.

He stood, the heavy waist chains dragging behind him like a tail. He didn't glance at the dying boy on the floor, or the other inmate left wide-eyed and cowering in the front of the van. He just stepped over the blood and followed the woman out into the blinding morning sun.