Page 61 of You Can Run

The Sicaria’s finger hovered over the guard, but she didn't move it to the trigger.

Slowly, almost lazily, she swung the rifle to the right. The circle of glass swept past the shipping containers, past the stacksof pallets, and came to rest on the white Ford F-150 idling fifty yards away.

She zoomed in.

Through the rear passenger window, she could see the silhouette of José Ferrera. He was sitting back, his face partially obscured by the tint, but she could see the glow of his cigarette. He looked relaxed. He looked like a man who believed he was the one holding the leash.

The Sicaria held the rifle there. She didn't move and she didn't blink. The crosshairs rested squarely on the back of Ferrera’s head. She wasn't watching the couple anymore. She was watching the hunter.

TWENTY-TWO

The interiorof the Dodge Ram felt like a pressurized oven. Trent sat at the wheel, his forehead resting against the cool, cracked plastic of the steering wheel. His nose was a dull, throbbing weight that made it painful to swallow.

He’d spent the night in the driver’s seat, waking in short, restless bursts whenever a passing set of headlights swept across the windshield. The few minutes of sleep he managed never went deep enough to dull the ache in his head.

By morning, he’d been moving again without really deciding to, circling the north end of the island with the same narrow focus that had carried him this far.

He looked down at his phone, cradled in the center console. The tracker he’d slapped onto the 'Cuda’s chassis back at the parking lot was the only thread he had left. It hadn't been visible until a few minutes ago, when it reappeared on the screen out of nowhere.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Trent shifted the car into gear, his foot hovering over the brake as he turned into a derelict marine salvage yard. He moved at a crawl, the tires crunching softly over oyster shells and rustedscrap. He saw the masts of the shrimping fleet, and then, tucked behind a stack of weather-beaten pallets, he saw it.

The red paint was unmistakable even under the grime of the trek. The 'Cuda.

He felt a surge of triumph that made his hands shake. “Got you,” Trent whispered, his voice a dry, gravelly croak that hurt his throat.

He killed the engine and sat in the silence for a moment, watching the car. It was empty.

Trent reached over to the passenger seat and flipped open the glove box. He pulled out the snub-nosed .38—his throwaway piece. It felt light and hollow compared to his service Glock, but it was enough. He checked the cylinder. Six rounds of .38 Special. Six chances to end Dante Cruz for good.

He stepped out of the car, the humidity hitting him like a wet towel. He leaned against the door to steady himself, waiting for the world to stop spinning. His vision tunneled, the edges of the salvage yard blurring into a grey smear. He tucked the pistol into his waistband, hiding it under his rumpled blazer, and began to walk.

He followed the narrow path between the shipping containers, his boots sinking into the oily dirt. He was a block away from the Strand and could still hear the sounds of the tourist crowds.

He rounded the corner of a corrugated iron warehouse and stopped.

There they were.

They were on the other side of the Strand. Jessica was walking fast, her head down, her shoulders hunched. And beside her was Dante. From this distance, Castaño didn't look like a legendary gangbanger. He looked like a desperate man in a hoodie, his hand clamped firmly on Jessica’s arm.

“Let her go, you son of a bitch,” Trent hissed under his breath.

“What is that asshat doing here?” José Ferrera spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the floor mat of the Ford and leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

“Boss?” the driver asked.

“The cop,” Ferrera muttered, nodding toward the limping man in a crumpled uniform appearing through the crowds of tourists in the Strand. “The one who just can’t keep out of it.”

Ferrera watched as Trent came closer. The man looked like he’d been dragged behind a bus; his face was a swollen mess. He was holding something behind his back, a weapon no doubt.

It was pathetic. Ferrera had seen this type before: the small-town beat cop who thought he was a hero. He’d thought he left Trent behind in Corpus, a nuisance easily swatted away, yet here he was, following Jessica like a stray dog.

“He’s gonna spook the girl,” the driver said, his hand hovering near his own waistband. “You want me to take him?”

“No. You’ll draw too much attention. I’ll handle it.”

Ferrera stepped out of the truck, the humid air instantly sticking to his skin. He looked up toward the warehouse roof. He couldn't see the Sicaria, but he felt the weight of her presence. He gave a short, sharp nod toward the docks.Cover me.