"Who lives there?"
"Mireille," Cross said. "She’s a Voodoo priestess. Not sure exactly what that means. I never ask specifics. Not the kind of woman you want mad at you."
"Should I be worried?" Drew asked.
"Only if you piss her off."
Drew slapped at another mosquito. Then another. They were nonstop biting her. "Jesus. These things are relentless. It’s like a form of torture."
Cross reached into a small bin beside the driver’s seat and tossed her a tin. "Bayou blend. Strongest stuff out here. Smells like hell but it works."
She cracked it open, took one whiff, and recoiled. "God. What’s in this?"
"Garlic. Mint. Some kind of oil Mireille makes. Might be a bit of crushed frog in there. Maybe some eye of newt. I never asked."
"Charming." But she slathered it on anyway. “You probably shouldn’t make fun. Who knows what kind of bad juju you could stir up.”
Cross nodded. “Probably true.”
They glided past the last shack, rounding a bend in the channel, and then Drew saw it. A cabin. Larger than the others, though still small by any standard. It sat on thick stilts driven into the murky water below. A covered porch ran the full length of the front. The wood was dark, weathered, and half-swallowed by some kind of swamp vines. A tin roof sloped low overhead, and thick mosquito netting hung from the porch frame. It looked to be in better shape than the other shacks they’d passed.
A small dock jutted off to one side, with a cleat for tying off the skiff. Cross guided the boat alongside, killed the engine, and leapt out to secure them. Then he turned and held out a hand. Drew hesitated, then took it. His hand was warm and strong and far too familiar. Note to self,no touching.She didn’t need this to be any more complicated than it already was.
The ramshackle dock creaked beneath her boots. A splash nearby made her freeze. She turned just in time to see two yellow eyes glint above the surface of the water—a gator drifting slowly between the cypress trees.
“Guard alligator? That’s novel.” She wasn’t sure how she found the energy to crack a joke. A bad one, but a joke, nonetheless.
"Don’t worry," Cross said, following her gaze. "He’s just curious."
"Great," she muttered. "Curious is how things end up with missing limbs."
He smirked. "Welcome to the bayou."
She shot him a go-to-hell look but followed him up the short stairs and onto the porch. Her family had a long history in Louisiana and in the bayou, but she’d always hated it. From day one. There was nothing good about the swamp, no matter how much people tried to convince her differently. It was one of the reasons she made her home base in Miami. Fewer bugs, less humidity. Plenty of gators, just not in her neighborhood.
Cross pushed open the cabin door, revealing a single-room space inside. Basic but clean. Wooden floorboards, a small table, two chairs, a cot in one corner, and a stack of supplies against the far wall. A gas lamp sat on a shelf beside a row of canned food. Everything smelled faintly of cedar, sweat, and swamp.
"It’s not much," Cross said, "but it’s safe. There’s a bathroom in the back corner.”
Drew stepped inside, letting the screen door slam behind her. Her whole body ached, residual tension from the adrenaline surge caused by being used for target practice. Her skin itched. Her heart hadn’t slowed since the gunfight. She stepped over to where Cross pointed and glanced in. Bathroom might be a bit of a stretch. Wet room with a weird toilet was more like it. A shower head on the wall, which, when it was on, would soak the whole space because there was no partition. “Fabulous,” she said between clenched teeth. “Just like the Ritz.” But for the first time in hours, she felt the tiniest flicker of calm.
"So," she said, glancing back at him. "Now what?"
Cross leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes unreadable.
"Now," he said, "we wait."
And outside, the bayou kept breathing—dark, wild, and watchful.
CHAPTER 7
The satellite phonebuzzed faintly in Cross’s hand as he stepped out onto the narrow deck overlooking the black water. The air was heavy with moisture and bayou musk, still clinging to him from the tunnel crawl. He was soaked through—sweat, swamp, maybe some fear too—but he kept his voice low and even as the call connected.
“Yeah. It’s me,” he said. “I don’t have long. I’m off-grid.”
Static crackled before a voice replied, sharp and efficient. “You safe?” his teammate asked. Stone McBride was from his old unit, now with the off-book Brotherhood Protectors. He was close with Tessa’s brother, Dane, as well.
“For now. But there’s a problem. Appears Rodriguez is tightening the noose.”
