Patch frowned. He tapped the side of his headset, listening for McGuire’s check-in. Nothing. He shifted slightly, eyes scanning the tree line.
That’s when it hit him—it was too quiet.
No frogs. No birds. No wind.
His breath caught.
And then the world snapped.
A boot came down hard on his lower back, driving him into the muck. Before he could pivot, a second weight slammed into his shoulder, pinning him. His rifle was wrenched from his grip and kicked out of reach, disappearing into the reeds.
He rolled, swung—connected with a jaw, maybe—and got a punch to the ribs for his trouble. Pain burst in white-hot flashes across his side. A knee dropped into his sternum, hard.
“Easy now,” a voice hissed in his ear. Male. Southern. Calm like a man who enjoyed the struggle. “Didn’t think you’d go down without saying hello.”
Patch bared his teeth. “Tell Gunner he’s slipping—sending amateurs.”
He got a laugh for that. Then a fist.
The world spun.
He blinked hard, trying to focus as rough hands yanked his arms behind him and locked zip ties tight enough to bite skin.
Patch twisted, scanning for the others—no movement in the trees, no glint of glass from Cross’ scope, no rustle to suggest Stone or McGuire had spotted the breach.
Either they hadn’t seen this… or worse, they were already down too.
The man who’d clocked him leaned in. Patch caught the scent of sweat, gun oil, and chewing tobacco.
“You’re the one she came out of the shadows for,” the man said, giving the zip ties an extra tug. “He was right. She’ll do anything to keep you breathing.”
Patch went still.
This wasn’t about intel. It was leverage.
A second guy emerged from the shadows—taller, leaner, with a scope rifle slung across his back and a grin like he thought this was fun.
“Let’s get him in place,” the first one said.
“In place for what?” Patch growled, even as they hauled him to his knees.
The taller one smirked. “Insurance.”
Patch struggled, but they had him cold—outnumbered, disarmed, and cut off from his team. He was dragged back through the muck, his boots scraping against roots and stones as they hauled him toward a boat hidden in the reeds.
And as the engine kicked to life and the boat started drifting downriver, only one thought thudded through his skull with every pulse.
Savvy’s walking into this alone.
And now she’d do it—thinking he was safe.
The engine murmured beneath her, low and steady as the skiff cut through the dark water. Cypress trees leaned in overhead, their moss-draped limbs forming a tunnel of shadow and memory. Fog licked at the surface, thick and heavy, like the breath of something ancient hiding in the bayou’s belly.
Savvy kept her hands steady on the wheel.
Patch’s voice still echoed in her head.Come back to me.
She gripped the words like a lifeline.
