Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
The light through the motel blinds was washed out and yellow, streaking across the cracked linoleum floor in slats.
The man sat on the edge of the bed, a disassembled Glock in his lap and a towel beneath it. His movements were steady. Practiced.
Barrel. Slide. Spring. Wipe. Oil. Reassemble.
Beside the bed, the boy sat on a worn cushion, thumbing through a battered comic book. Bare feet. Quiet. No complaints.
Good. Quiet kids were easier.
He checked the chamber, racked the slide, set the pistol aside. And waited.
The memory scratched at him: standing in the hallway at that safehouse last night, watching the door crack open just enough to see them tangled together—Ryan and Lucía.
Sleeping. Her head on his chest. His hand curled protectively at her waist.
He could have taken her then, and he almost did. But Ryan wasn’t the kind of man you crossed when he was half-awake and holding something he cared about.
That would have been sloppy. Risky.
The boy was the better play. A clean grab, no noise, maximum leverage.
He stood slowly, walked to the window, tilted the blinds to scan the lot. It was empty. He checked his burner phone again. One unread message: They’re on their way.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned toward the boy.
The boy looked up at him, eyes wide but calm. “Are we going somewhere?”
The man shook his head, almost gently. “Nope.” He picked up the pistol again. “But I am.”