Chapter 6
SIX
Trent left at five-thirty, same as always. Same half-hearted kiss on her cheek that smelled like toothpaste and stale coffee. Same muttered complaint about his shift schedule and how the department was screwing him over again.
Jessica waited until she heard his truck start, then locked the door behind him, slid the deadbolt, then checked it again without thinking. The apartment settled into silence around her.
She leaned her forehead briefly against the door, eyes closed, letting her breathing even out. Her pulse was still skittery from the night before. From Ryan’s face under the strip club lights. From the way he’d said you're in danger.
She scoffed and pushed away from the door.
She was still wearing the dress she'd worn to work last night, a tiny red sequined number that felt lurid and gauche in the pale dawn light.
After coffee, she'd shower and wash off her makeup and try not to catch her reflection in the mirror, lest she notice how she was now a woman in her mid-thirties and way too old for this shit.
The duplex was hers, although she'd heard Trent boasting to his buddies that he owned it and merely let her live there.
The truth was, even though the man was paid a good salary, he was terrible with money.
He seemed to spend it as a fast as he got it, on overpriced sneakers and brand new Xboxes, and on wild nights out with the boys.
It was on such a wild night a little over a year ago that he met her, while she was working at The Bare Minimum.
She knew he continued to frequent other strip clubs in town, but the knowledge bothered her less than it should.
He was still someone to come home to, someone who filled up the empty spaces in her life, and he still cared for her, she knew that.
And that was not nothing, which she would have if she didn't have him.
Nothing but bad memories and nightmares that still dogged her in the dark.
She moved through the living room barefoot.
The place was small but neat. There was nothing personal on the walls, nothing that tied her to a past she’d worked very hard to bury.
A couch salvaged from Facebook Marketplace.
A scarred coffee table. Curtains she never opened all the way.
The kettle screamed from the stove, shrill and impatient.
She poured water over instant coffee and grimaced.
She used to love good coffee. She couldn’t remember when she’d stopped caring.
Jessica carried her mug to the window, peering through the thin slit between the curtains. The street outside looked the same as it always did. A row of identical duplexes. A white pickup parked across the road. Someone’s dog barking two houses down. All completely ordinary.
She leaned back against the wall and took a sip of coffee, her fingers drifting to the thin chain around her neck without conscious thought. The ruby ring rested just below her collarbone.
She rubbed her thumb over it, feeling the familiar edges of the setting. Then she dropped her hand. Something felt off. The thought slipped in quietly, unannounced.
She held her breath for a moment and listened. There was just the hum of the fridge, the tick of the wall clock.
Normal.
She took a step away from wall and saw the back window was ajar. She hadn’t opened it.
She crossed the living room slowly, heart beginning to pound a little harder. The latch sat half-turned, not fully engaged.
Her stomach tightened.
Maybe Trent forgot. Maybe she had. That happened sometimes.
Still. She locked it. Then she checked the bathroom window. Locked.
Bedroom. Locked.
She exhaled slowly, annoyed at herself.
You’re jumping at shadows.
She told herself that Ryan had gotten under her skin. That years of living on half-alert didn’t just shut off because you wanted them to.
She glanced at the door, then at the narrow hallway leading toward the back of the apartment.
She shook her head, irritated now.
Get it together.
She rinsed her mug and set it in the sink. She had to get ready for the day. She had errands to run. A shift tonight. A life to maintain.
As she left the kitchen, she heard a sound behind her. A splintering of wood, coming from the front door.
Jessica froze. Every survival instinct she’d tried to suppress flooded her system like adrenaline.
She didn’t move toward the noise. She moved fast and silent further down the hallway, her pulse hammering in her ears. In her bedroom, her hand fumbled open the drawer of her bureau, shoving aside the clothing inside,
Not the snub-nosed .38 she’d carried years ago—the one Ryan had once said she’d have a better chance of hitting someone with if she threw it at them. She’d taken that personally. Done her research.
This one was compact, polymer-framed, and clean-lined. Nothing flashy, but reliable. Something she could control under stress. She checked the chamber automatically, fingers steady despite her heart beating so loudly she heard every thump.
Then she ducked into her closet, shoving glittery high heels to the side, until she uncovered the narrow door cut into the wall.
She yanked it open, the old hinges creaking, and crawled inside.
The space was cramped, just wide enough for her shoulders, just tall enough that she didn’t have to crouch.
The walls were reinforced drywall backed with plywood.
The tiny door was solid-core, and dead bolted from the inside.
She’d never told anyone about it. Not Trent. No one.
But you don’t have something like this built unless you really believe, deep down, that one day you’ll need it.
She fumbled her phone out of her pocket, then scrolled to the most recently added contact.
Last night, before he’d finally left her alone, Ryan had insisted she save the number.
It was a burner number, one which he may have already stopped using.
If things go bad, he’d said. You call. If it doesn’t ring, it’s already dead.
She paused for one moment longer, then hit DIAL.
Dante stood in the middle of the garage long after Ryan’s taillights disappeared down the road, the quiet settling back piece by piece as dawn seeped through the high windows and pale light crept across the concrete floor.
For a while he didn’t move.
Ryan Inglis. Of all the men on earth.
“Carajo,” he muttered.
The garage suddenly felt too small. He scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a slow breath, trying to push the encounter out of his head.
Ryan was a liar; a badge-carrying federal snake who’d sold her out once already.
Dante grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the grease from his hands harder than necessary, the fabric dragging across his knuckles.
The skin beneath was the same color as the grease: tattooed with heavy lettering across each finger that read: LMN-13.
A permanent reminder like all the other ones he carried on his body that he had been the one to bring this danger into all of their lives. He was just as much to blame as Inglis.
He tossed the rag aside and paced the length of the garage, boots echoing against the concrete as the rising sun painted the horizon outside a thin, bleeding pink. He crossed the floor toward the corner where the car sat.
The ’Cuda rested like a sleeping animal. It wasn’t the first one he'd owned. That car was still somewhere in Chicago, maybe crushed, maybe rusting in an impound lot, maybe sitting forgotten in some government warehouse.
This one he’d found outside Laredo five years ago. It had taken him two years to rebuild it. New engine, new suspension, and fresh paint laid down so deep it looked wet even in the dark. He’d done the work himself: every bolt, every weld, every long night in this very garage.
And when it was finished, he’d rolled it into the corner…
…and had never driven it.
Because every time he looked at the damn thing, he saw her.
Jessica leaning across the seat to kiss him at a red light; Jessica’s bare feet resting on the dashboard; Jessica laughing while the engine roared beneath them as they tore down Lakeshore Drive with the city lights exploding around them.
Dante stood there staring at the tarp, Ryan’s words creeping back into his head.
They found her.
Bullshit.
But what if–
He shoved the thought away.
Ryan didn’t look back at the workshop. He just walked to the dusty Toyota Tacoma with Mexican plates, the familiar weight of failure settling on his shoulders. The sun was just starting to rise, the sky paling over the scrubland.
He slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door quietly.
For a long moment, he just sat there with his hands on the wheel, staring at nothing.
He’d expected resistance and anger. What he hadn’t expected was how much Dante’s refusal felt like déjà vu—he’d put up the same wall as Jessica.
He had the same stubborn pride, the same certainty that staying put was strength.
It never was.
Ryan exhaled slowly and started the engine.
He badly wanted to call Lucía, the woman he loved and who he'd been forced to leave back in México.
She would know what to do next, she was the smartest person he'd ever met.
But he knew the first thing she'd tell him was to stay off his phone and not call her, not matter what.
She had enemies far worse than the USMS hunting her.
They had an agreed meet-up point just south of Piedras Negras, and he was going to make it if it killed him. At least he could say he tried.
As he drove, the road out of Agua Dulce stretched empty and straight ahead of him. Two years on the run had taught him one thing: you couldn’t save people who didn’t want saving.
His phone buzzed on the console.
Ryan glanced down. Unknown number.
His stomach tightened. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the car onto the shoulder, dust billowing up around the tires, and cut the engine. The sudden silence pressed in.
The phone buzzed again. He swiped to answer.
“Ryan.” Her voice was low and tight, her breathing fast.
His spine went cold. “Jessica,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“There’s someone in my apartment.”
Everything in him went sharp and still.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In the bedroom,” she whispered. “I heard wood on the door splintering when someone tried to get in. I didn’t see anyone. Trent’s gone.”
Ryan's world narrowing to a single point. “Good,” he said. “Stay quiet. Stay exactly where you are.”
Ryan restarted the car and set his phone back in his dash cradle. “Do you have your phone on silent?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t hang up.” He waited a beat then asked, “How long do you think you have?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But whoever it is… they’re not rushing.”
That was worse. Amateurs kicked in doors and grabbed what they wanted. Professionals took their time.
Ryan merged back onto the road, already calculating distance, routes, contingencies that were probably useless. Corpus Christi was miles away.
“Jessica,” he said, voice dropping into the tone that had once convinced her to trust him with her life. “Listen to me. If you have somewhere reinforced—somewhere you planned to never use—go there now.”
Silence. Then, quietly: “I already am.”
Relief punched through him. “Good.”.
A soft thud sounded over the line. Ryan tightened his grip on the wheel.
“Ryan,” she whispered. “I think he's in the living room.”
“Stay still,” he said. “No matter what you hear. Don’t open that door unless I tell you to.”
“And if he gets through it?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Then you fight. You don't stop until he's dead, Jessica. Do you hear me?”
He floored the accelerator.
The road blurred under the headlights, the distance collapsing into numbers he didn’t like. He glanced at the phone, still connected to Jessica’s line.
He tapped the screen, adding another call.
The line rang once, twice.
Then–
“Who the hell is this?”
Ryan didn't bother with a reintroduction. “Someone’s inside her apartment.”
Silence on the other end of the line. It didn't feel like disbelief, it felt more like processing.
“She’s barricaded,” Ryan continued. “For now.”
Dante exhaled, sharp and controlled. “I’m closer.”
“Good,” he said. “Then move.”
He switched back to Jessica’s line.
“Jessica,” he said, voice steady. “If another call comes through, answer it.”
Her voice tightened. “You called Dante.”
“Yes.”
A pause. Then, quietly, “I wish you hadn't.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “You can yell at me later.”
A dull thud echoed over the line.
Jessica sucked in a breath.
“Ryan,” she whispered. “They’re getting closer.”
“Stay still,” he said. He merged onto the highway, engine roaring.
Dante was driving in from the south. Ryan tearing east. And in the middle, Jessica was holding a phone and a gun, waiting for the shadows to find her.
Dante lowered the phone slowly.
Someone was inside Jessica’s apartment.
Fear came first, followed swiftly by anger, hot, instant and familiar. Someone had broken into her home; someone thought they could touch her.
Dante’s moved before his brain caught up.
He picked up his Colt .45 from under the bench, then strode toward the 'Cuda, his reflection staring back at him in the paint. He opened the driver’s door, then slid into the seat and rested his hands on the wheel.
The engine didn’t start politely; it roared to life, the V8 exploding through the garage with a vibration that rattled the windows. It was like the car had been waiting.
So had he.
Dante dropped the transmission into gear and hit the gas. The ’Cuda shot out onto the road like a bullet. Somewhere north of here, Jessica was hiding in the dark with strangers moving through her home.
Dante pressed the accelerator harder. If anyone laid a hand on her—
Dios help them.
Because he wouldn’t.