It's three thousand miles from San-Francisco to Tuxtla.

Three thousand miles plagued by questions where to get gas, eat, sleep and shit without becoming a red dot on someone's GPS. Three thousand miles of keeping communications and transactions to a minimum. Three thousand miles under an assumed name.

Traveling without leaving a digital footprint is not a simple task. The logistics should distract me, but my mind is stubborn and engages the autopilot. Its core is stuck on processing the same thought over and over, like it's a damaged computer telescoping infinite windows with the same text.

I failed Bryn. I failed Bryn. I failed Bryn.

Three thousand miles of that, and I'm ready to crack.

After this hell, no wonder I breathe out a sigh of relief when I drive into Tuxtla.

Not because it's a pretty city. It is: low-density for the most part; spread on the hilly terrain that provides variety yet doesn't challenge you much; and backed by mesa with tropical greenery pushing out of every gap.

I'm breathing easier because from this moment on I must do more than chores in my quest to rescue my girl. This time I intend to be on the ball, miss absolutely nothing, and, above all, never fail Bryn again.

My first stop is Holiday Inn near the heart of Tuxtla. With a room secured to my fake name, I walk toward the knot of ring roads intersected by three boulevards and one avenue. Why it's not oriented to the compass' points, beats me. There's the regularity to the grid that calls for it, some primal need for it to be. Maybe the local tour guides know the answer why the city planner resisted the urge.

Just outside the state college grounds, off the Boulevard Comitan, sits my target.

Romero Arquitectura occupies a three-story office building, with the name proudly splashed over the entrance in one of those drifting fonts. My legs tingle as I walk off the cramps from curling them under in a dinky car for three thousand miles. A similar tingle courses through my veins. It's getting hotter in the deadly game of hot-and-cold I'm stuck in. My body is ready.

At first glance, the firm's quarters are just what Romero is on paper: a middling firm in a sleepy state capital. But the longer I loiter on the sidewalk with an ice-cream in my fist, then in a café opposite Romero, the stronger I pick up the signal. Wealth, backed by fear, shows itself. The attitudes of men who dive inside are crisper, the paint on the window shatters is fresher, and even the flower bed in front of the building is glossier than the neighbors', as if someone had buffed every leaf to shine. On the same note, the glass in the large windows is licked so clean, it's like it's not even there.

Lucky Romero. Lucky me. It's getting hotter and hotter.

I crook my finger to summon another espresso from the twitching waiter and pick up my phone.

"Sweetheart, it's been too long," I say once they pick up my call.

"You have eyes on it?" Mila asks in a hoarse whisper, instead of hello, let alone sweetie. My heart pangs missing Bryn's chirpy, babe and hon. She answered the phone with it so many times, and I loved it, just never appreciated it enough.

Bryn, if we get through this—

"Well, do you?" Mila cuts off my silent vow with another whisper-scream. Something has changed. For a tenth of a second, I'm not sure what it is, then I get it: her background is absolutely quiet. Dangerously so. Dammit, I don't need any side-challenges with everything that already piled up on my plate!

I sigh. "Are you in a hostage situation?"

"What—" Mila checks a snigger, before going back to whispering. "They're napping, Scali. It's very, very cute, but I doubt you care."

"You're right. I don't." A smile sneaks upon my lips: Ryan, cute? Should I even allow for such a possibility? I capitalize on that unexpected smile, for other ice-cream pedestrians and coffee-guzzlers. I make it wider, roll my head back, relaxing as much as I can in my plastic chair. Just another tourist having a cup of coffee and chatting a girl up... "I have eyes on it. It's three stories."

"I have Google Maps." She sounds offended.

"Two floors seem legit with cubicles, whiteboards and shit—" Lizzy is asleep, so I'm allowed to talk like a grownup, right? Right? "The top floor has extra security: there's a longer pause between getting off the elevator and walking by the windows."

"Key cards?"

"Yes, but I think it only works for the non-exec floors. Saw two people go to the third floor so far. A man in a suit and his secretary."

"We call it an admin assistant in 2022, Scali."

"Spare me. It's Mexico, and she was bringing coffee."

"And a jerk is a jerk no matter where he goes."

"Fine." The aftertaste of espresso on my tongue turns to sour. I take another sip to refresh my palate. "The admin assistant has access to the third floor. I didn't see Irene or Nicky, but if the firm did any work on her hideout in Guatemala, the third floor is where I would likely find the address of the project and the floor plans."

"I take it security guards don't bother you?"

A click of a tongue is all this question deserves from me. Mila accepts it as a valid answer.

"First, you'll need her card," she instructs.

"Glad I'm paying you top dollar for that advice. I would have never thought of it in a million years."

"Glad I could help."

We maintain a tense pause for three valuable seconds, before she quits tormenting me. "Second, you'll activate the app I'm sending you as we speak—"

"Ah, that's what you were doing!"

The link pops up on my phone screen. An important safety tip, children: Never download anything a genius hacker sends you. Unless they're your hacker, you have no other choice, and it's a squeaky-clean burner phone.

"You'll make sure the app's running when your phone sits within five inches from hers. Right next to it is even better," Mila says and pauses. Then chuckles. "Her phone should be on."

"Thanks, gen-Z."

"Just making sure, Scali. You're long in the tooth to have called her a secretary."

The download progress circle spins, like this thing is for ordering burgers or counting your steps or something similarly innocuous. "Five inches. Her phone switched on. Got it."

"And, if you're smarter than you sound, you'll pump the mark for information on what you're searching for."

The waiter—or should I say a food service specialist?—glides over with my third coffee, so I splay my legs and make smooching noises into the phone.

Mila groans. "Behave yourself, or I won't tell you what else I've just found out."

"Don't get your hopes up, baby." My fingers grip the phone tighter, as I follow the retreating waiter with my gaze. The moment I deem him to be out of the earshot, I ask her, "Is it about Bryn?"

It sounds like I'm begging for crumbs, but I have no more fucks left to give.

"Sort of," Mila says and my breath hitches. Silence on her end of the line. I suppose Ryan and the kid are still asleep.

"Anything. Please. I'm dying."

She takes pity on me. "I was drawing a blank on Irene's and Nicky's social media about the man who was with them. Irene barely has anything. Nicky has plenty, but it's all teenage stuff. So, on a hunch, I tried looking into Bryn's connections. There I scored."

The degenerative chair legs make a scraping sound on the floor tiles as I straighten in it, fold my legs under, ready to lunge.

"Don't you dare to imply she's meeting someone on the side! Don't!" The growl catches in my throat. Does she? No, no. It's fucking impossible. Just because Bryn's not enthusiastic about giving birth ten months after the wedding pronto, it doesn't mean she's unenthusiastic about me.

"Jeez, Scali. Stop acting Italian. It's a professional connection."

I must be losing my marbles, because Mila sounds almost sympathetic. Five. Four. Three... deep breathing.

"Okay. Okay. Okay... go on."

"Remember the article in the L.A. Devs? About the next gen women of the Silicon Valley?"

"An article... an article..." I snap my fingers, sifting for the memory. "Oh! It was in some trade magazine or an alumni paper something-something?"

"Yes, it's small, but it circulates among the right people. Bryn's profile attracted a lot of positive attention. But, naturally, almost as many haters."

"Another benefit of living in 2022. And she didn't tell me about it."

"Yes, yes, it's a mystery why she wouldn't mention something like this to a guy nicknamed 'the Trigger' with a rap sheet a mile long," Mila hisses.

"Point taken."

"Most notably, one Kassan Mallet had ranted how even a blind woman is preferable to men of towering talent in our corrupt age."

My jaw clenches. "And this asshole matches Terry's description?"

"Not only that, he also specializes in stage décor and conceptual art for movie backdrops."

"Never heard of him."

"I'm not surprised. Who has the time for those pages of the fast-scrolling credits? But I bet you've heard of his work." Mila rattles off a few movie titles that I indeed had heard of, just like the rest of the world. High grossing in the box office, darkly violent and artistic. "That little indiscretion put him under the cancel-culture microscope, so he has reasons to really hate Bryn after that."

"My girl did good. The enemies you make on your way up show your quality." If a Hollywood darling envies Bryn enough to blow himself up, she's doing great. Not that I wouldn't have rearranged his face, if I knew. Or broke his legs... since I'm an old-timer, and like the traditional ways. "So you think the freaky displays are his handiwork?"

"Positive. He's not as fastidious as Irene with his social media."

"They've been seeing each other?"

"Yes."

"Okay." It's still a long way from ketchup and CGI to the butchery I've witnessed at the vineyard. But the pandemic messed with people's minds. The fucking pandemic! "Maybe you can—"

Mila expels an exasperated sigh. "If I could track him, you wouldn't be cooling your heels in Tuxtla. Mallet went off the grid two weeks ago."

"Fine, fine. I'll do all the heavy lifting as usual."

"Oh, get over yourself, Scali. Install the app and remember—"

Giddy laughter drowns out her lecture, along with the galloping footfalls on the deck... or is it walls? Ceiling? Ryan's groggy stomping and exclamations join the cacophony. How's their boat not capsizing?

"App, Scali! Next to her phone, till I send you three texts, twenty-second pause, two more texts," Mila pitches her voice high, to out-yell the sounds of her life choices. And I will be damned if I'm not dying from envy. Bryn and I, we should have this. We earned it, dammit.

"Three. Twenty-sec pause. Two," I repeat diligently, because she expects me to. Hackers always do.

"Get the location pronto, because your ride to Guatemala is on standby!" Mila screams, then the line goes dead.

Not thanking Mila is becoming a tradition with us, but I'll start our next conversation with it, if Romero Arquitectura yields the coordinates and blueprints for Irene's hideout. Belatedly, I realize I didn't ask Mila about the chatter on the dark web, but I push it to the back of my mind. When she knows something, she'll tell me.

I empty my third espresso in one gulp and set the cup on its saucer. Porcelain jingles. The sun is still high in the cloudless Mexican sky, but it's time to head to the hotel and change into my office attire. No need to rush and screw up, obviously. Yet, there's spring in my step, and it's not just caffeine.

They, who stole Bryn from me, will rue the day. I'll make sure everyone knows how pathetic their end was. And I'll never let her out of my sight again. Ever.

If she is still alive.

And, please, Lord, don't spit in my face. Let her be alive. Just let her be alive! I'll do the rest.