The sound of gunfire filled the night. He didn’t know if it was Rodriguez’s guys versus the cartel, or if it was the ATF against Rodriguez’s people, or some kind of fucked up combo. It didn’t matter. It meant help wasn’t coming anytime soon.
Cross moved to the edge of the open door and risked a look in. The room was tight, chock full of shelves holding tools, stacks of tires, and the hulking shadow of a rusting forklift. There was nowhere else to run.
Rodriguez and Miguel had circled wide, one on each side, with Drew between them, pistols up and steady.
Rodriguez’s mouth was twisted in a predatory grin. “You think you can take me? You’ve been hiding behind that pretty scope all night. Let’s see what you’ve got up close.”
Cross stepped forward, the weight of his own pistol balanced and ready. “You’re right. Let’s.”
It was a calculated risk. Miguel still wanted the shipment, and keeping at least one of them alive, either Drew or Cross, would be the key to getting that. Chances were good he’d use Drew. Cross could live with whatever happened to him as long as Drew was okay. And he trusted his teammates to make sure that happened, even if he couldn’t.
Rodriguez tossed his gun aside and yanked a wrench the size of Cross’s forearm off the workbench. His eyes gleamed with bloodlust. He swung in a wide arc, thewhooshof steel cutting the air. Cross ducked, driving a hard punch into Rodriguez’s ribs, feeling the satisfying give beneath the impact.
Rodriguez snarled, bringing the wrench down again, but Cross caught his wrist, the two of them crashing into the forklift. Metal rang against metal, echoing through the bay.
Cross kneed him in the gut, wrenching the weapon free and tossing it aside. Rodriguez responded with a headbutt that sent a white-hot burst of pain through Cross’s skull.
They grappled, boots skidding on the oil-slick floor. Cross slammed him into the side of the forklift, once, twice, the clang rattling the cab’s thick glass. Rodriguez clawed at Cross’s throat, spitting curses in rapid Spanish.
Adrenaline roared through Cross’s veins, hot and blinding. He slammed Rodriguez back against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the concrete. Cross’s forearm crushed across his throat, pinning him there, his own pulse pounding in his ears. In one smooth, practiced motion, he yanked the knife from his belt, the steel flashing in the dim light.
Rodriguez froze. His chest heaved, eyes wide and shining with the sudden realization that this was the end.
Cross’s voice came low, almost calm—but it carried the weight of a death sentence. “You screwed with the wrong people. Now you’re out of time.”
The gunshot hit like a thunderclap. Rodriguez jerked once, then collapsed, his body sliding down the wall in a slow, boneless spill.
Cross spun, knife still in hand, ready for whatever came next?—
Miguel stood in the doorway, his pistol leveled square at Cross’s chest. His expression was cold, his voice colder. “I don’t have time for your shit. We go back to the warehouse, I get my shipment, and then maybe I let you live. Or maybe I don’t.”
The fading echoes of the gunfight still rumbled through the walls, distant but close enough to keep every nerve raw. Cross’schest rose and fell hard as he glanced past Miguel— and saw Drew.
She was pale, eyes wide, breathing in short, shallow bursts. He reached for her without thinking, pulling her into him. She collapsed against his chest, and he tore the tape from her mouth with a quick, rough pull. He was about to speak—something, anything to tell her she was safe?—
Miguel stepped in close, jamming the gun into her ribs. “Move,” he snarled. The word was a promise, a threat, and a countdown all at once.
CHAPTER 27
Drew and Crossstepped through the same door they’d exited earlier. The scene on the warehouse floor had shifted—two cartel men crouched in the far corner, guns tossed aside, hands raised in surrender. Rodriguez’s men were sprawled motionless on the concrete, dark stains spreading away from their bodies.
Tessa was crouched behind the sandbag wall, rifle still up, eyes scanning the space. When she spotted Cross, her shoulders eased just slightly. “Where’s Rodriguez?”
“Not coming back,” Cross said, his voice flat.
Patch dropped down from the semi’s roof, his boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. “Cartel boys are pulling out. Guess they don’t like the odds anymore.”
McGuire rose from behind another barricade and gave a sharp whistle toward the far corner. “Drew!” Relief flickered in his voice as he took a step forward—then he stopped dead. Miguel had come in behind them, the cold press of a gun muzzle sliding against the side of Drew’s head. Her breath hitched, heart slamming into her ribs.
“Shit,” Patch muttered.
McGuire’s rifle came up instantly. Tessa and Patch mirrored him; barrels locked on Miguel.
“You’re gonna let them go,” McGuire ordered, voice tight.
Miguel didn’t even look at him. He said something in rapid Spanish, his tone sharp and controlled. Out of the corner of her eye, Drew saw his men obey, pushing themselves up from the floor.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Every muscle screamed to move, but Miguel’s grip was firm, the gun an unspoken promise that if she tried, it would end quickly.
