Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
The motel room was still and heavy with warmth, the filtered light creeping through the slats of the broken blinds. Outside, Salina Cruz was waking up. Lucía heard the clatter of a street vendor’s cart, the low whine of a scooter weaving through traffic on the coastal road.
She stood at the sink in the bathroom, toothbrush dangling from her fingers. Her hair was still wet from the shower and stuck to her back. The ceramic tiles were cold beneath her bare feet.
She stared at her reflection. Not at the dark circles or the lines of fatigue around her mouth. Not at the fading bruise on her shoulder or the scratch on her collarbone she didn’t remember getting. But at her eyes.
They looked too awake. Too alive.
She rinsed her mouth, turned off the tap, and leaned on the counter. Ryan was still asleep in the other room or pretending to be.
Her mind went back to Mateo, as it so often did in these quiet moments when she had nothing to distract her mind.
He’d been brilliant. Witty. Endlessly curious. And he’d cared about her in a way that no one ever had. Why, oh why hadn’t she chosen him? Why hadn’t she let him cross that invisible line on the rooftop that time?
And why had she let Javier do it instead?
Or maybe it wasn’t a case of her letting. Maybe it was a case of him taking.
Or worse, her letting him take.
Lucía sat on the edge of the tub. A lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.
The cartel didn’t just kill people. They erased them.
They rewrote timelines and histories, altered official records, made it so you never existed.
Mateo hadn’t just been murdered. He’d been wiped from the world.
And every time she got closer to someone, she felt the echo of that threat inside her chest.
She hadn’t let anyone in since.
She thought of the way Ryan had looked last night, half in shadow, half in that lurid neon glow. The sound of his voice in the dark. The rawness in it when he spoke about regret.
She wanted to keep her distance. She’d planned to. But something about him made her forget how. He was dangerous in a way she hadn’t prepared for. Not because he carried a gun. But because he saw her, even when she didn’t want to be seen.
She hadn’t told him the whole truth about Javier Esquivel.
El Escriba. She hadn’t told him that he was the first man who’d ever made her feel seen.
And the first man who made her doubt herself for it.
His control had been so subtle at first. So polished.
So charming. By the time she realized how carefully he had shaped her…
It was too late.
Lucía closed her eyes and let the memory drain from her, but it clung stubbornly, leaving a sour taste on her tongue and a hollow ache in her chest.
Even now, after everything—after Mateo’s death, after years on the run—she could still feel the ghost of Javier’s grip at the nape of her neck. The weight of his gaze. The way he had made her question not just what she was doing but who she was.
Her fingers brushed the tile wall beside her, grounding her in its cool roughness.
She inhaled deeply through her nose, counted to five, then exhaled slowly. Then she rose from the edge of the tub.
She wasn’t the same girl Javier Esquivel had molded all those years ago. Not anymore.
She was someone else now. Someone who would finish what Mateo started.
Ryan sat on the edge of his mattress, elbows on his knees, listening to the shower hiss shut.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door clicked and steam spilled out.
Lucía stepped into the doorway, toweling water from the ends of her hair.
She caught his eyes for half a second, then moved past, set her towel on the chair, and reached for the laptop.
“Morning,” he said.
She lifted a hand in answer, already flipping the lid, the screen lighting her face. He stood, went to the tiny kitchenette, and poured boiling water into two paper cups with instant coffee. It tasted like burned cardboard, but it was better than nothing.
When he handed her one, she barely glanced up in thanks. “I take it you’ve found something?”
“The shipping warehouse was definitely a front,” she said, fingers flying. “Money flowed through it and promptly vanished.”
He eased onto the bed opposite, watching the muscles in her jaw work as she focused. It was like seeing a storm gather. Controlled energy. Nothing wasted.
“So what are you looking for?” he asked.
“Something sloppy,” she said. She scrolled, stopped, scrolled back. “The shell company is registered in Chihuahua. Transactions cross-check to a seafood supplier west of Puerto Cortés.” She trailed off, eyes narrowing.
“Got something?” Ryan asked.
Lucía nodded slowly. “Altamar Seafood. On paper, it’s shuttered. But there’s activity in the subsidiary accounts. Tiny movements. Cleaning crews. Furniture rental. And one invoice for child-sized clothing.”
Ryan’s stomach flipped. “You think that’s where they’re holding the kid?”
“Could be.”
“Any way we can make sure this time before we go in all-guns-blazing?”
She nodded. “Whoever filed this line will know. It’s a little local tax office.”
He ran it over in his mind. It sounded like a lead, a real one this time.
The marshal in him started parsing the options, building the plan.
“Okay. We start at the tax office. Find the clerk who keyed this. Or the person who gives them orders.” He stood, checked the angle of the sun through the blinds. “How far is it?”
“A fair way. It’s out past the industrial strip,” she said. “Too remote for a bus and too far for a taxi. And if we’re right about it, we might need a fast exit.” She stood, zipping her laptop into her backpack. “So we’re gonna need some wheels.”
They left the motel before dawn, sticking to side streets and alleys.
Ryan hung back, letting Lucía lead the way down a crumbling back street near the freight yard, weaving through shadows and shuttered storefronts until they reached a mechanic’s lot with a hand-painted sign and a chain-link fence.
Inside: a graveyard of sun-blistered sedans and salt-rusted pickups.
Lucía didn’t hesitate. She headed straight for the oldest Nissan pickup on the lot: a squat, four-door Hardbody with bald tires, a busted headlight, and peeling paint that might’ve once been red.
Then she rapped on the side of the trailer that served as an office.
A teenager opened the door, shirtless, and reeking of last night’s mota.
Ryan kept his hand near his pistol, ready to step in if things turned bad.
But he didn’t have to. Lucía didn’t raise her voice, she spoke just loud enough to make the kid nervous. And whatever she said in Spanish, it worked. Five minutes later, she tossed Ryan the keys like she’d just borrowed them from a friend.
“No papers,” she said as they climbed in. “No air con. And second gear’s a gamble.”
By the time the sun began to claw its way up over the docks, they were on the road.
The sun had just begun to burn through the haze when Ryan eased the battered truck onto the coastal road that skirted the edge of Salina Cruz. The pavement shimmered ahead, warped by heat. Glimpses of the Pacific flashed between crooked palms and low, tin-roofed shops just opening for the day.
He adjusted the mirror. Lucía was silent beside him, her face turned to the window, sunglasses hiding her eyes.
Her hair was pulled back and exposed the clean line of her jaw and throat, and he had to drag his gaze away more than once.
The collar of her shirt was damp with sweat already, clinging to her skin where it met the seatbelt.
They hadn’t said much since they’d left the mechanic’s yard. It didn’t matter at first; the silence gave him a chance to think about the task ahead of them and ready his mind.
But after a while, the silence began to stretch so thin it almost hummed.
Ryan cleared his throat. “You always this quiet on road trips?”
Lucía didn’t look over. “Depends on the company.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile, exactly. But close enough to send a slow spread of warmth through his stomach. He filed the moment away, something small and private he could replay later.
He tapped the steering wheel, letting the rhythm fill the silence.
He wasn’t used to this kind of company. Most of the time, in his old life, the person riding shotgun was either a fellow marshal or a prisoner.
Lucía was neither. Truth be told, he had no idea what she was.
She was a complete mystery. And every hour he spent with her, he found himself wanting to ask questions he had no business asking.
“You ever think about what you’d do if none of this had happened?” he asked.
She tilted her head slightly. She turned her face toward the window.
Outside, the sea blurred past in glints of silver and turquoise.
“I used to think I’d get married,” she said eventually.
“Have a kid. Maybe two. Keep one of those…” she trailed off, searching for the words, her mouth quirking up in a self-deprecating way, “whiteboard calendars on the fridge. Learn how to cook something other than eggs.”
Ryan glanced at her, surprised.
She gave a faint smile. “I know. Doesn’t quite fit the profile.”
“It’s not that. I just…” He shrugged. “I guess I figured you were more career-first.”
“I was.” Her smile faded, eyes tracing the horizon. “I mean, I wanted both. The family. And the corner office. I thought I could have it if I worked hard enough. If I played it right.”
“And did you?”
“I got the office,” she said. “Glass walls. Expensive coffee. A mentor who saw something in me.” She paused, voice cooling. “Or maybe he just saw something he could use.”
Ryan didn’t answer.
Lucía shifted in her seat, gaze still fixed outside. “I didn’t plan to fall for that world. But I did. The elegance. The power. It felt like belonging. For the first time.”
Ryan pondered her words, trying to decipher what she meant by fall for. “And now?”
“Now? I want to burn it all down.” A long pause. “And figure out what’s left of me when it’s over.”
He glanced at her. Her eyes were still on the window, the sunglasses hiding whatever look she didn’t want him to see. But her fingers were curled tight in her lap, and it was clear to him those words cost her a lot to say out loud.
“And you?” she asked, turning to him and catching him off-guard. “If you weren’t running?”
He exhaled. “I was never much good at the whole dreaming thing.” He glanced across at her. “But maybe a quiet place. Some land. Preferably in the mountains.”
She digested that. “For me, it would have to be by the sea. I get anxious when I’m too far inland.”
He glanced across at her. “Easier to escape?”
She didn’t respond, but he guessed he’d hit the jackpot. Maybe a nerve, too.
They drove a few more miles in silence. The air grew thicker, the temperature rising inside the car. Sweat gathered under his arms, and he rolled the window down another inch.
Eventually, Lucía pulled out her laptop, resting it on her knees. Ryan kept stealing glances. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers tapping in rapid bursts. He liked watching her work. She was so relentless. Precise. A far cry from the chaotic mess he often felt inside his own head.
Her leg brushed his gearshift hand once, accidentally, and she didn’t move it right away. His pulse jumped. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did. She shifted a little in her seat, subtly, but he caught the flick of her glance.
The road curved. A slow, winding bend that gave them a glimpse of something other than the ocean in the distance. Ryan shifted in his seat, muscles tight from the long ride.
“We should stop soon,” he said. “Stretch our legs. Maybe get something that passes for food.”
Lucía nodded without looking up.
He spotted a roadside stand a few miles on and turned the truck into its lot. It was just a few plastic tables, a grill, and a hand-painted sign promising tacos and cerveza. They ordered bottled water and chorizo tortas, sitting at a table shaded by a torn umbrella. Flies buzzed lazily in the heat.
Lucía peeled the paper off her sandwich, took a bite, and moaned softly. “God, I forgot what real food tastes like.”
They ate in a slow, companionable silence. Ryan leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the warmth soak into his bones. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
They lingered just long enough to finish their food, then headed back to the car. The sun was high now, baking the road. The air shimmered like a mirage, heat rolling off the pavement.
Back inside the truck, Ryan noticed the way she pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. A bead of sweat rolled down her neck. He looked away quickly, but not before she’d caught him.
“Something on your mind, Marshal?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Plenty.”
Lucía turned the radio on and flipped through until she found a scratchy station playing old Spanish love songs. She didn’t change it.
Ryan let the music drift between them, slow and sentimental.
She looked out the window, resting her chin on her hand. Her voice was soft when she finally spoke. “You think we’ll actually find him? The boy.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, “I have to believe we will. If I didn’t…”
He trailed off. She didn’t push him.
They drove in silence for a while longer, the sky widening above them, the road stretching out ahead, hazy with heat fumes. The air between them buzzed, like the static before a storm.