It was 1980 in West Texas, the kind of night where the heat lingered even after sundown, thick and stubborn. You and your husband, Anton, had been on the road for hours, chasing a ghost through the desert. The Chevrolet El Camino hummed beneath you, its engine steady as it cut through the dark highway, the faint scent of gasoline and worn leather filling the cab. The air conditioner sputtered out a lukewarm breeze, barely enough to combat the heat, but it was better than nothing.

Anton’s left hand gripped the wheel with practiced ease, his right resting possessively on your thigh, his fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of your jeans. You leaned against the window, watching the occasional headlights blur past, their glow fleeting in the vast emptiness of the open road. The soft beeping of the tracker on the dashboard quickened, a steady pulse guiding you toward Llewelyn Moss—the man too foolish to know he was being hunted.

He had stolen thousands from a cartel deal gone south, money he thought was his for the taking. But hidden within that fortune was a silent predator, a tracker pulsing in the dark, leading you and Anton right to him. He wouldn’t see it coming.

The radio murmured quiet Spanish music, the melody drifting through the dimly lit cab, mixing with the rhythmic thump of tires against asphalt. Anton’s gaze flicked between the road and the tracker, his expression unreadable, the faintest curl of a smirk at the corner of his lips. You could feel it—the weight of what was coming, the inevitability of it.

Llewelyn Moss was running.

But he wouldn’t run for long.