“Drew…” He stepped forward, but she held up a hand.
“No. You’re right. It’s better if I go.”
They both fell silent, the weight of everything left unsaid stretching between them. Finally, she looked at him again, her voice quieter now. “Where’s the drop?”
“There’s a shack near Devil’s Elbow. McGuire will meet us there by boat.”
“When do we leave?”
“A few hours after nightfall.”
She nodded once. “Fine.”
Cross didn’t move for a long moment, just stood there watching her in the weak late afternoon light. There was a part of him that wanted to pull her into his arms again, kiss her until they both forgot the danger, the mission, the weight of what still hung between them. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
If he let himself love her again, truly love her, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it a second time.
And he knew damn well—neither of them was getting out of this clean.
The air wasthick with midnight sweat as Cross pushed the flat-bottomed skiff away from his rickety dock. The moon hung low over the swamp, its glow breaking through the tangled canopy in fractured beams. Spanish moss swayed overhead like ghostly fingers, and the water below was as black as oil, broken only by the occasional flick of something unseen just beneath the surface.
Drew sat opposite him, her silhouette obscured by the shadows of the mosquito netting rigged around the skiff’s frame. Her shoulders were tense, arms folded tight across her chest, but her eyes didn’t miss a thing. She scanned the water the same way he did—like it might bite.
Cross kept the engine low as they drifted through the channel, the putter of the outboard barely louder than the drone of insects. The swamp pressed in from all sides—reeds thick aswalls, trees leaning toward each other like they were plotting. Out here, even sound moved differently. Softer. Slower. Like the whole world was holding its breath.
He gripped the tiller, eyes sweeping the shadows ahead.
“Devil’s Elbow’s about fifteen minutes out,” he muttered.
Drew nodded, saying nothing. Her hand slipped toward the Glock at her hip. Good girl.
The knot of dread in Cross’s gut had been growing heavier since they left the dock. He didn’t like this.Too still. Too easy. His instincts weren’t just buzzing—they were screaming. And years in the field had taught him that gut feelings were usually just your subconscious stitching together clues your brain hadn’t caught yet.
He shut off the motor.
“What—” Drew started, but he raised a hand to stop her.
They drifted. Silence wrapped around them like a wet blanket. No frogs. No birds. Even the bugs had gone still.
Cross angled the skiff toward the reeds, letting the hull glide into a patch of shadows near a fallen cypress log. He picked up the paddle and nudged them into cover, killing any sound.
Drew leaned toward him, whispering low. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She nodded once. Quiet. Alert. The professional side of her always kicked in when it counted.
He scanned the channel ahead, narrowing his eyes.There. Something shifted in the water. A faint wake. Too slow for a gator. Too smooth for a natural current. His hand moved to the rifle near his feet. Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been him.
The Weasel was like smoke—no one ever saw him coming, and they weren’t alive to hear him leave. He was a ghost with a deadly mission, and he’d made a name off the backs of dead men who never even had a chance. If he were here, they were already in his sights.
The boat rocked gently below them. Drew’s hand brushed his. He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes forward. And then… movement. Cross crouched lower. But instead of gunfire, a low ripple broke through the dark, followed by the quiet scrape of wood on water.
A narrow canoe emerged from the tree line, the figure paddling it eerily quiet, nothing but muscle memory and experience guiding each stroke.
Cross relaxed—barely.
“Rick,” he called softly.
