Chapter 7
SEVEN
The wall of the crawl space pressed cool and solid against Jessica’s spine as she held herself perfectly still, knees bent and weight balanced on the balls of her feet, the pistol raised but not yet aimed at anything.
There was nowhere to aim yet, only darkness, drywall, and the thin strip of light beneath the hidden door.
Her phone hovered millimeters from her mouth.
“I hear him,” she whispered.
Ryan’s voice came through the speaker, soft and steady enough that she could almost pretend he was standing on the other side of the wall instead of somewhere miles away.
“What kind of sounds?”
“Footsteps,” she murmured. “And they’re not rushing or panicking. Like he knows he has time.”
She eased her fingertips along the edge of the hidden door, feeling for vibration through the frame; the apartment on the other side suddenly sounded enormous, every small noise magnified by the quiet.
A drawer slid open somewhere in the living room.
Furniture scraped faintly across the floor.
Then a voice began humming, soft, tuneless, almost casual, the sound of someone passing time while they searched.
Jessica felt the muscles in her stomach knot.
“He's looking for me,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Ryan said calmly. “But he doesn't know where you are yet.”
Yet. The word hung there between them.
“Jessica,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping a notch lower, “do not make noise unless you have to.”
She swallowed, forcing her breathing to slow the way she’d practiced years ago when panic tried to take over.
“I know.”
The pistol sat steady in her hands, the polymer grip warm from her palms.
The humming stopped. The footsteps stopped directly outside her door.
Jessica held her breath.
Ryan drove like the laws of physics were optional, the needle of the Tacoma's speedometer climbing steadily while the engine whined in protest beneath the hood; the road ahead stretched long and empty through the scrubland, a pale ribbon of asphalt that offered no shortcuts, and no miracles.
He kept one hand on the wheel and the other hovering near the phone mounted to the dash.
“Jessica,” he said. “Let me know you’re still there. Even if it’s just breathing.”
For a moment there was only the hiss of the open line, and Ryan felt the silence tighten in his chest like a wire being pulled taut.
Then her voice came through, barely above a whisper.
“I’m here. I’m not moving.”
Good.
His phone vibrated with a second call. He switched lines without easing off the accelerator, keeping Jessica on hold.
“I’m a few minutes out,” Dante said.
The words came through warped by wind and engine noise—the deep, furious roar of the ’Cuda’s big block vibrating through the speaker like distant thunder. Relief punched through Ryan harder than he expected.
“Okay,” he said, forcing his thoughts into order. “Listen carefully. She’s barricaded. They don’t know where yet. If they leave—”
“They won’t,” Dante cut in. It didn't sound like he wasn’t guessing. “They’re not burglars.”
Ryan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.
“I put her in this,” Dante said suddenly. “All of it.”
Ryan didn’t answer. Because that wasn’t true, and yet it wasn’t false either. Guilt had a way of spreading itself around.
“Tell her something for me,” Dante added, the words coming slower now, pushed out over the roar of the engine. “If you talk to her before I get there—tell her I’m coming.”
Ryan nodded once, though Dante couldn’t see it. “I will.”
The line clicked dead.
Ryan glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was too far. He wasn't going to make it.
He switched back to Jessica’s line.
“Jessica,” he said, his voice steady again, the same calm cadence that had once convinced her to trust him with her life. “Help is closer than you think.”
She didn’t answer immediately and for a moment he wondered if the connection had dropped. Then her voice returned, even softer than before.
“I can hear them breathing.”
Ryan felt the words travel straight down his spine. The road blurred beneath him as he pressed the accelerator harder.
I should've listened.
The thought cut through Dante as the 'Cuda tore down the empty road, the needle climbing while the car strained beneath him.
Should've listened to the damn marshal.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw flexing.
And why hadn't he? Maybe it wasn't about Ryan at all.
Maybe it was the same thing it had always been, the knowledge that no matter how many years passed or how far he ran from Chicago, from her, from the version of himself who'd believed he could build a life out of lies and still keep her clean, he'd been the one who brought her into it.
We'll get out together.
Dante exhaled hard through his nose. God, he'd believed that.
The 'Cuda fishtailed when he pushed it too hard along the shoulder, gravel spitting out from under the tires before he corrected, hands steady even as the car snapped back into line and shot forward again.
If he was too late...
The thought didn't finish because it didn't need to.
If La Mano Negra got to her because he'd been too proud to listen, there wouldn't be any coming back from that.
Dante pressed the accelerator down until it hit the floor.