Blurring The Line. Kierney Scott

before, it immediately vanished when she saw the tattoo of Santa Muerte on his chest.

      Beth stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. This was it. “Take care, Torres.”

      “You too, Gatita,” he said before he pulled away.

Chapter Three

      Torres stared down at the worn map. His finger circled the red dot, over and over, along the border of Sonora and Sinaloa, the last known address of Javier Martinez. He wouldn’t let himself believe it was almost over. He had spent so much time, given up so much to get to this point. He couldn’t yet imagine what it would feel like to live without the manacles shackling him to his disastrous past. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled into believing the guilt would go. He would live with that forever. But he would be done.

      Done.

      What did that look like? Shit if he knew, but he couldn’t wait to find out. First thing he would do, he would go and see his mom, explain things to her, make things right. She would understand, maybe even be proud. She would know he hadn’t become a drug lord. Her last surviving child was not running drugs for Los Zetas. It would take time for her to understand. And it would take time for Torres to forget the look of pain and disgust that had contorted his mother’s face that last time he had seen her. He still saw it when he thought of her; two years later and that was still the image he saw.

      The doorbell rang.

      Torres’ head shot up. He glanced at the clock. It was too late in the day for a delivery, and he wasn’t expecting anything. On reflex, his hand went to his back, touching the cold metal of the gun that was permanently fixed to his body. He slid the weapon out of its holder and clicked the safety off.

      “Who’s there?” Torres demanded.

      “Its Sal.”

      Flores.

      The short hairs on Torres’ arms stood taut. He rubbed his thumb over the barrel of the gun. Flores should not be here. He never came to Torres’ home. Ever. They met at Flores’ house or at a truck stop on I35. Torres wasn’t even sure how he knew where he lived. In the nearly two years he had been renting the one-bedroom apartment, he had had two visitors, and both of them had been delivering Chinese food.

      Slowly Torres slid his gun into the waist of his jeans, in front where he could reach it.

      “Que pasa?” Torres asked as he opened the door.

      Flores did not say anything, rather he shook his head and handed Torres a large manila envelope.

      “What’s this?”

      “Your woman. What’s her name?”

      A cold sweat broke out along Torres’ brow. His hand moved lower to the gun at his waist. “Why?”

      “Look at it. They found her. This was slid under my door. I tried calling you.”

      Torres glanced over at his phone sitting on the coffee table. He’d turned off his phone eight hours ago so he could concentrate.

      Torres slid a glossy photo free from the envelope. It was a picture of him sitting beside Beth on the curb outside the gas station. Torres ground his teeth together as he studied the picture. Across Beth’s face, someone had drawn a scorpion, the mark of Los Treintas. They had ordered a hit on her.

      Torres ran a hand along his jaw. “When did you get this?” Once a hit was ordered, it was carried out within hours. Torres was being taunted, that was what Los Treintas did, it added another layer of terror. They always sent the photo to the family.

      “About an hour ago. I tried calling.”

      Torres pinched his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. “Shit,” he said to no one in particular. He sat down on the couch and laid the photo on the coffee table beside his phone, scrutinising every detail.

      “I’m sorry.”

      Torres could hear Flores speaking but he didn’t know what he was saying. He needed to think. And he could not do that with Flores breathing down his neck.

      Torres stood up suddenly. “Thanks for telling me.” He put a hand on Flores’ shoulder and guided him to the door. The look on the man’s face indicated he was confused by Torres’ sudden change in demeanour. “I need to think,” Torres said by way of explanation, which was the truth.

      Flores nodded.

      Torres shut the door behind him and locked it. He turned and slid down to the floor, his back hard against the door. “Shit,” he said again.

      What was he going to do? Christ, she could already be dead by now. He shook his head when he realised that that would actually be the easiest solution. It was self-preservation, better her than him. He couldn’t die yet, not with Martinez still breathing. For whatever reason El Escorpion had ordered a hit on Beth but not on Torres. He was sending a message to him. Apparently he thought Beth was the way to hurt him.

      Torres almost laughed at the thought. He barely knew her. He had no loyalties to her. He had seen hundreds of people die, in Iraq, and just as many die since he got home. Her death would not even register to him. And that fact made him cold. At what point did he become the dragon instead of the slayer?

      He shook his head again. All these thoughts were too deep for him; he didn’t have the luxury of giving a shit any more. He didn’t owe her anything. His only loyalty was to Moses Archila. He would find the man who killed him. Nothing else mattered. Yes there would be casualities, but there always were. He could not mourn for every soldier lost along the way…or every agent.

      If he warned Beth, she would be taken into protective custody, as would he, for his own sake. And then Javier Martinez would get away.

      There was really only one choice so he would not let himself overthink it or second-guess himself. He would do what needed to be done. He always did.