On the far bank, he’d watched McGuire lie belly-down in the brush, a rifle at the ready, north of Savvy. She’d crouched beside a thick base of a bald cypress, face taut, and ready to strike. Oddly, it was a proud moment for him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance to say those words back.
She’d get the chance. He’d make sure of it.
Riven was tucked behind a felled tree, south of Savvy. This wasn’t his best plan. But it wasn’t his worst.
Patch’s hands gripped the roots along the riverbank, anchoring him in the current. His heartbeat ticked a slow count in his ears. He could feel the weight of the air shifting.
Then he heard it.
A low thrum, mechanical and deliberate. A boat, creeping slowly, just above idle. No chatter. No boys shooting the shit. Just the faint hum of a two-stroke, steadily easing downriver.
The skiff emerged around the bend. Two men. One steering. One on lookout, scanning the banks with the casual tension of someone expecting trouble.
Patch saw the weapons before he saw the faces.
Both men were armed—short-barrel automatics tucked close, ready. Those guns could inflict some damage—more damage than their rifles and handguns. But Patch had something they didn’t.
Knowledge of the bayou and that was something.
He didn’t move. Not yet.
They inched closer, slow and steady. The boat stayed in the center of the water, making this a bit more challenging for Patch.
A splash of a tail from his right. Fucking real gator ducked under the water. He’d told Savvy if you let them be, they’d leave you alone. Only that wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t sure how big the one that had decided to crawl around the bottom had been. But if it was bigger than him, he might have a problem he didn’t want to contend with at this moment.
Maybe never. He’d wrestled gators before. But nothing bigger than six feet. Patch could be considered a crazy motherfucker, but he didn’t have a damn death wish.
McGuire’s voice was low, coming from the shadows across the water. “Wait. Let ’em come in range. Wait. Let ’em come in range.” At least McGuire knew which alligator was real and which was Patch. He certainly hoped he’d pointed that out to the girls. Riven had made it perfectly clear on more than one occasion she didn’t like the animals. Nope, she loathed them.
Savvy hadn’t been too keen on them either.
Truth be told, Patch tolerated their savagery.
The boat drifted closer.
Patch let the moment stretch, breath held, until the boat was nearly even with him—until he could hear the creak of the hull and the muttered voice of the man up front.
Then he moved.
He surged from the water like a breaking nightmare, launching himself up and over the side of the skiff. The man on lookout shouted—a sharp, startled cry cut short as Patch slammed into him, dragging him overboard.
The other man spun, rifle half-lifted—but the boat rocked hard under the sudden shift, throwing his aim. A burst of gunfire cracked wildly across the surface of the river.
McGuire shouted, “Down!” from the bank.
Patch hit the water with the lookout in a full grapple, kicking them both under. Mud and silt exploded around them. The man thrashed, but Patch got the upper hand, wrenching the rifle from him and shoving him toward the shallows.
Back in the boat, the second man steadied—but too late. McGuire fired three times. It wasn’t a warning shot either. He hit the hull of the boat.
“Drop it!” McGuire roared from the shadows. “That boat’s gonna be in the silt in about five minutes. In about ten, those gators over there.” He waved his rifle. “They're gonna be chomping at your feet. I don’t think you want that.”
The second man hesitated—then flung his weapon into the water, hands raised.
Patch hauled himself up onto the sinking boat, dragging the lookout behind him.
“Bring ’em in,” Savvy called.
Riven was already moving, low and fast, covering them.
