Chapter 19
NINETEEN
The muzzle of the gun never shook. Ryan kept his eyes glued to it.
In her small hands, the thing looked like a cannon.
The recoil alone would probably set her on her ass.
But her voice had been calm, measured, and there was no mistaking the threat in it.
Ryan had spent a good amount of time staring down killers, and he knew the most dangerous ones weren’t loud. They were quiet. Certain.
He raised his hands slowly, palms open.
“Back toward the cabin,” she said.
Ryan obeyed. The slope was uneven beneath his boots, the trail loose with pine needles and small stones, but she tracked him with precision.
Up close, she was smaller than he’d expected. Five foot five, maybe. But there was no mistaking the intent in her stance. Eyes sharp, mouth tense. Her shoulders moved like someone used to being hunted.
He reached the cabin door.
“Open it. Slowly.”
He did.
The interior was dim, lit only by the glow from a solar lantern on the table. Sparse setup—cot, table, laptop. Survival gear, stacked and clean.
Lucía stepped in behind him and kicked the door shut. Then she gestured to the chair at the table.
“Sit.”
Ryan moved slowly. She didn’t flinch.
The zip-ties came next. She grabbed them from a bag on the table, near the lantern, and he noted how quickly she tied him off. Not pro-level, but practiced. One looped around his wrists, another cinching them to the back of the chair, then two more securing his ankles to the legs.
“You tie everyone up before asking their name first?” he muttered.
She said nothing. But she came closer. Close enough that he could smell the trace of sweat on her skin. Her hands were steady as she checked each tie.
Ryan sat still, letting her work. Letting her feel in control. He wasn’t sure how trigger-happy she was, but he was sure of this: one wrong word and she’d put a bullet in him and vanish by morning.
She stepped back and finally spoke. “You’re tracking me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She circled him slowly, like she was inspecting a bomb. Or deciding where to place the first hole.
“Who sent you?”
“No one sent me.”
“Then who are you?” she demanded.
Ryan hesitated. He considered giving her one of the many aliases he’d used since crossing the border two years ago. Then it occurred to him that his cover had already been blown to fuck, so it hardly mattered anymore what she called him. So, it may as well be the truth. “Ryan Inglis.”
“Should I know that name?”
“Not unless you’ve been watching U.S. Marshals’ Most Wanted lists.”
She stared at him. No flicker of recognition.
“Why are you here, Ryan Inglis?”
Good question. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected to happen when he found her. He’d imagined confronting her, maybe scaring her into talking. He’d hoped she’d be innocent—just a name on a list, someone swept into something she didn’t understand. And if she wasn’t?
Then he’d do what he had to. Buy time. Stall. Figure out why she mattered so much. Maybe contact the people who sent the burner phone. Maybe not. The plan had never been clear.
But now, tied to a chair in a stranger’s cabin, with a gun in his face and no backup coming, the fog around that plan felt a whole lot thicker.
“Because someone’s coming after both of us,” he said. “And they’re not going to knock.”
Her jaw flexed. She pressed the barrel of the gun to the side of his neck. The sensation was ice.
“You work for them?”
“Who?”
“The ones coming for me.”
Ryan swallowed. “No.”
“Then who the fuck are you working for?”
“No one. Not anymore.”
For a second, she looked almost disappointed.
He stared at her, blood pounding. She was close now. He could see the curve of her neck, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sweat at her temple. Close enough that he could smell the heat coming off her skin.
She studied his face like she was trying to decide what kind of man he was. Whether he would break easy. Whether he deserved mercy.
Her finger twitched against the trigger. Her jaw pulsed, but her expression didn’t change.
He tensed, ready to twist, to kick, anything—
Then: buzz.
A vibration.
Lucía flinched.
The second burner phone. The one the kidnappers had left him.
Buzz. Buzz. Then silence.
She stepped back and looked down.
It was in his jacket pocket. Keeping her body as far from his as she could, she reached in carefully and pulled it free. The screen lit with a single new message.
Her eyes flicked up to his. “Who gave you this?”
Ryan stared at the phone. Then back at her. “That’s what I came to find out.”
Lucía turned the burner phone in her hand, her pulse throbbing behind her ears.
1 new message.
She tapped the screen. A line of text appeared in blocky white letters against a black background: “Clock’s ticking. Find Lucía Duarte or the boy dies.”
The message dissolved after three seconds, replaced by the blank home screen.
Her breath snagged. She stared at the screen as it went black. “Who gave you this?” she demanded, turning back to the man in the chair.
But he wasn’t in the chair. The zip ties lay on the floor. Snapped in half.
Her stomach plummeted. Then a hand caught her wrist, spun her. The phone hit the floor.
She twisted, fast, but not fast enough. His body pressed into hers, one arm braced across her chest, the other wrapping her gun hand. Her Colt clattered to the floorboards.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
“Easy,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was firm. Unrelenting.
She pushed back, but his body was like a wall. Tall, hard-muscled through his shirt.
“Take your hands off me.”
“Only if you stop pointing guns at me.”
His breath was at her ear. His heartbeat, steady. Unshaken.
The cabin was too small. Too quiet. She could smell the sweat on him, the faint trace of something under it, gun oil, maybe. Her body was responding in ways she hadn’t prepared for. Not here. Not now.
“How?” she hissed. “The zip ties—”
“Plastic weakens in heat. It gets brittle. A little leverage, it pops.”
Damn it.
Her pulse thudded. She was breathing too fast.
“Are you going to kill me?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His grip loosened just enough to let her turn.
They were face to face now. Inches apart. His eyes were bright blue, guarded but not cold.
“No,” he said. “I came here to talk.”
She could strike. Knee to the groin. Elbow to the jaw. But she didn’t.
He released her slowly. She didn’t move.
He bent and retrieved her gun but didn’t raise it. They stood in silence, tension snapping between them like electricity.
Lucía stepped back, reclaiming the space. Her hand brushed the edge of the table, grounding her. “Then talk.”
His eyes flicked to the burner phone on the floor, still dark. “They sent me to find you. I didn’t know why. Not at first. But now I think we have the same enemy.”
Her hands trembled slightly. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From proximity.
“You think I’m just going to believe that?”
“No,” he said. “But you don’t have a lot of options left.”
She stared at him. He was right. She hated that. “Sit down. Over there.”
He did.
She dropped into the opposite chair, the air between them still humming.
“You have five minutes,” she said.
“That’s all I need.”