Page 11 of You Can Run

She exhaled slowly, annoyed at herself.

You’re jumping at shadows.

She told herself that Ryan had gotten under her skin. That years of living on half-alert didn’t just shut off because you wanted them to.

She glanced at the door, then at the narrow hallway leading toward the back of the apartment.

She shook her head, irritated now.

Get it together.

She rinsed her mug and set it in the sink. She had to get ready for the day. She had errands to run. A shift tonight. A life to maintain.

As she left the kitchen, she heard a sound behind her. A splintering of wood, coming from the front door.

Jessica froze. Every survival instinct she’d tried to suppress flooded her system like adrenaline.

She didn’t move toward the noise. She moved fast and silent further down the hallway, her pulse hammering in her ears. In her bedroom, her hand fumbled open the drawer of her bureau, shoving aside the clothing inside,

Not the snub-nosed .38 she’d carried years ago—the one Ryan had once said she’d have a better chance of hitting someone with if she threw it at them. She’d taken that personally. Done her research.

This one was compact, polymer-framed, and clean-lined. Nothing flashy, but reliable. Something she could control under stress. She checked the chamber automatically, fingers steady despite her heart beating so loudly she heard every thump.

Then she ducked into her closet, shoving glittery high heels to the side, until she uncovered the narrow door cut into the wall. She yanked it open, the old hinges creaking, and crawled inside. The space was cramped, just wide enough for her shoulders, just tall enough that she didn’t have to crouch. The walls were reinforced drywall backed with plywood. The tiny door was solid-core, and dead bolted from the inside.

She’d never told anyone about it. Not Trent. No one.

But you don’t have something like this built unless you really believe, deep down, that one day you’ll need it. She fumbled her phone out of her pocket, then scrolled to the most recently added contact. Last night, before he’d finally left her alone, Ryan had insisted she save the number. It was a burner number, one which he may have already stopped using.

If things go bad, he’d said.You call. If it doesn’t ring, it’s already dead.

She paused for one moment longer, then hit DIAL.

Dante stood in the middle of the garage long after Ryan’s taillights disappeared down the road, the quiet settling back piece by piece as dawn seeped through the high windows and pale light crept across the concrete floor.

For a while he didn’t move.

Ryan Inglis. Of all the men on earth.

“Carajo,” he muttered.

The garage suddenly felt too small. He scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a slow breath, trying to push the encounter out of his head.

Ryan was a liar; a badge-carrying federal snake who’d sold her out once already.

Dante grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the grease from his hands harder than necessary, the fabric dragging across his knuckles. The skin beneath was the same color as the grease: tattooed with heavy lettering across each finger that read: LMN-13. A permanent reminder like all the other ones he carried on his body that he had been the one to bring this danger into all of their lives. He was just as much to blame as Inglis.

He tossed the rag aside and paced the length of the garage, boots echoing against the concrete as the rising sun painted the horizon outside a thin, bleeding pink. He crossed the floor toward the corner where the car sat.

The ’Cuda rested like a sleeping animal. It wasn’t the first one he'd owned. That car was still somewhere in Chicago, maybe crushed, maybe rusting in an impound lot, maybe sitting forgotten in some government warehouse.

This one he’d found outside Laredo five years ago. It had taken him two years to rebuild it. New engine, new suspension, and fresh paint laid down so deep it looked wet even in the dark. He’d done the work himself: every bolt, every weld, every long night in this very garage.

And when it was finished, he’d rolled it into the corner…

…and had never driven it.

Because every time he looked at the damn thing, he saw her.