Two years later

La Paz, Mexico


The boat engine purred like a cat as Clyde tightened the last bolt, grease staining his knuckles. He wiped his brow and looked out at the bay — turquoise and endless. A boy waved from the dock, holding a fishing rod too big for his arms.


Clyde smiled. “Be there in a minute, champ.”


Inside their cottage, Layla stood in front of a chalkboard menu, erasing the words “Coconut Flan” and replacing them with “Peach Cobbler.” Her tiny seaside café only had six tables, but it stayed full most days. Tourists came for the desserts. Locals came for her stories — the ones she never finished telling.


She wore a white sundress, her curls wild in the salty breeze. A small gold ring glinted on her finger.


There were no more guns in the house. No getaway bags. No false names.


But on the wall in their bedroom, behind a picture frame, hidden like a prayer, lay two passports with new names, and one note scribbled in faded ink:


“If we ever have to run again — we run together.”


Sometimes, Layla stood out on the beach at night and listened to the wind.

She thought about the lives they left behind — the girl with the pistol in her purse, the man with fire in his eyes.

She missed them.

But she didn’t mourn them.


They survived the only way they knew how.


And now, they lived the way no one thought they could.


Free.