Page 27 of You Can Run

The jealousy settled into place like it had never left.

The gun was on the floor near the closet door, a compact 9mm, matte black, not anything Trent had ever seen in the duplex. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand. Jessica had a gun he didn't know about.

He stood there holding it, thinking of her crouched in the dark with a weapon she shouldn't have needed, alone and terrified in a home he was supposed to have made safe. She hadn't asked for his help. She hadn't trusted him to handle it. She'd armed herself in secret, like all the protection he'd could have given her was nothing. Like his badge on the nightstand was decoration. Likehewasn't enough.

The gun itself had no serial. It was unregistered—the kind of thing that definitely didn't come from a store. Someone had gotten this for her. Someone who knew how to acquire things like that.

Trent's grip tightened. Castaño. Of course.

“We'll find them,” the man panted, his voice fading. “LMN doesn't forget.”

“You won't find anything bleeding out on my carpet,” Trent said. He knelt down, ignoring the blood soaking into the knees of his uniform pants, and reached into the man's pocket. Theburner phone came out slick with sweat. “But I can find them. I know where he's going.”

The enforcer looked at him through glazed eyes, something between contempt and curiosity.

“I want him dead,” Trent whispered, leaning close. “And I want her back. You tell your people that I'm the one with the lead. I know where he's taken her.”

He stood there, the burner phone in one hand, Jessica's gun in his other.

The screen lit his face in a pale glow—a list of numbers with no names, just sequences and timestamps.

His thumb hovered. He opened the most recent thread and started typing.

Castaño's alive. I know where he'll go.

He stared at the message, then added:

You want him, you go through me.

He hit send before he could think about it. Then he slid the phone into his pocket and looked down at the bleeding man. He tossed Jessica’s gun at his feet, as a symbol of how unafraid of the guy he was. A sudden surge of bravery made his voice come out steady—made him sound almostgangster: “Now, get the fuck out of here before I finish the job.”

The motel room hadn't changed. Ferrera stood near the window, one hand holding the curtain back an inch, watching the parking lot without really seeing it. Cars came and went. A woman loaded suitcases into a sedan. A kid chased something across the asphalt that might have been a lizard.

He was waiting.

The Sicaria's phone buzzed once on the table.

She picked it up and read the screen without expression, then turned it slightly so he could see.

Castaño's alive. I know where he'll go. You want him, you go through me.

The message had come through on Ramos’ line, the enforcer burner. But this wasn't Ramos. The syntax was wrong, the tone was wrong, and Ramos wouldn't have written in English.

Ferrera read it twice.

“Someone took his phone,” the Sicaria said.

“Or he gave it up.” Ferrera let the curtain fall and turned from the window. Either way, Ramos was out of the picture—dead, arrested, or too badly hurt to matter. The job had failed. What he hadn't expected was someone picking up the pieces and trying to sell them back.

He crossed to the table and took the phone from her, reading the message again.You want him, you go through me.The phrasing stuck on him. Whoever had written this was trying to establish value, which meant they had something to trade and needed something in return.

“Who has access to Ramos?” Ferrera asked.

The Sicaria considered it. “Whoever was at the apartment. Police, most likely, if they responded to the scene.” She paused. “But a cop responding to a call doesn't take a cartel enforcer's burner and start sending messages on it. That's personal.”

Ferrera sat down across from her. “Someone who was already connected to the woman,” he said, thinking aloud. “Someone who found Ramos, took the phone, and decided to make contact.”

“The boyfriend,” the Sicaria said. “The one who gave up her info to pay his debt.”