Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Ryan lay on his back, one arm under his head, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved in hours, but he hadn’t slept either.
Lucía’s voice still echoed in his head. Her story. Her past. Mateo. Her boss, too. Ryan had clocked the waver in her voice when she’d gotten to that part of her story. And it told him that there was a hell of a lot more to that chapter than she’d been prepared to divulge.
Persuasive. She’d said it like it tasted bitter in her mouth.
Like it still lingered. He’d heard women use that word before.
Usually when they didn’t want to say manipulative.
Or worse. It wasn’t the ledger that stuck in his mind now.
Not the theft, not the fleeing. It was that one word. Persuasive.
Javier Esquivel.
Ryan had worked with predators before. Some wore suits instead of tattoos, but the wiring was the same.
She wasn’t who he thought she was. Not just a fugitive with a stolen flash drive and a shady backstory. She was someone who could have disappeared forever and didn’t. Who could have sold that flash drive to the highest bidder and be living on a private island somewhere.
He turned his head slightly. She was curled on her side, facing the wall, her breathing slow and steady.
There was something fierce about her. But fragile, too. Not weak, but worn thin, like she’d been shouldering this burden for a long time and it was taking its toll.
He exhaled slowly and shut his eyes.
They had a long way to go. And God help him, he was starting to care whether she made it to the other side.
The image on the monitor was grainy, pulled from a second-rate CCTV camera mounted above a roadside tienda. Javier Esquivel studied the image without blinking.
Lucía was seated in the passenger seat of a battered pickup truck, face half-turned in profile. Her hair was wind-blown, pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked alert. Next to her sat a man.
He was angular and broad-shouldered. Mid-thirties, possibly forty. American, by the set of his jaw and the cut of his T-shirt. One hand on the wheel. The other resting on the seat between them. Close. Too close.
“Where was this taken?” he asked, voice smooth.
His aide—a smartly-dressed man, hands clasped behind his back—said, “Tiny village in the Sierra Norte mountains. Twelve hours ago. They stopped for fuel. Paid cash. Cameras were wiped within the hour.”
Javier nodded. “But you salvaged this.”
“Yes, sir.”
He kept staring.
There was something about the curve of her posture that struck him: not defensive, but no longer afraid. She wasn’t shrinking from the man beside her. She wasn’t keeping her guard high.
That was new.
He zoomed in slowly, until her face came into focus.
Even now, after all these years, her image still sent something sharp through his bloodstream.
She looked older, of course. Harder around the edges.
But that only made her more interesting.
There was a real fight in her now, something that hadn’t existed before she ran.
Javier clicked once, saving the image to a private folder. Then he switched to the next screen—a different feed, a different room.
A child paced in a corner, kicking a deflated soccer ball. The shot didn’t show much of his face, just a spray of freckles and a mop of unmistakable red hair.
Still safe. For now.
Javier leaned back in his chair.
He had underestimated Inglis. That much was clear.
The plan had been simple: dangle a ghost of Kylie Inglis in front of the man, give him a whiff of cartel activity, and point him toward Lucía.
Let him do the hunting for them. Let his grief and guilt drive him into her orbit, then tear them both apart.
But now…they were working together. Not adversaries. Allies.
His jaw flexed. He didn’t like variables. And Ryan Inglis was now a very large variable. Worse: Lucía clearly trusted him. That was dangerous.
He tapped a knuckle against the edge of the desk.
Killing Inglis would be easy. But that wouldn’t solve the larger issue. He didn’t want Lucía dead. Not yet. Not like that. He wanted her cornered. Bent, not broken. There was a difference.
And now she’d given him something useful: she’d shown her weakness.
Connection.
That was something he could use.
Javier closed the surveillance feed and opened a blank message window. He began to type, slow and measured, each keystroke deliberate. A command for his contact embedded in the Salina Cruz municipal offices. A new file was being prepared. A new trail. One that would seem plausible, even urgent.
He would let them find it. He would let them believe they were still winning.
And when they were exactly where he wanted them—desperate and divided—then he would pull the thread.
Lucía would come back to him and bring his stolen property back with her. One way or another.