Free Blurring the Line by Kierney Scott

wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. Torres looked like a monster but he wasn’t. He was different to Flores. There was something else to him, not just an unbridled passion for violence. “Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee? Shouldn’t brag, but I make some of the best instant in Texas.”
    “No, I better go.”
    Beth nodded. There was more she wanted to say but she wasn’t sure what. She hesitated before she said, “If Martinez was brought back to Texas, he would get the death penalty. He killed two border agents. He won’t be getting a slap on the wrist. The Mexico City office is on his tail.”
    Torres nodded but did not say anything. They both knew what she was saying. Torres did not need to go after Martinez. But they both knew he would. He was too far in now to go back. If there was any question about that 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.