A twig snapped behind her. Not from the trees—from the riverbank.
Gunner didn’t flinch. He just faded, gaze drifting past her shoulder.
And that’s when she knew.
She clenched her jaw—and lifted the flare. “Then let’s finish what you started.”
Patch’s wrists burned and bled.
The bastards had tied him to an old piling half-buried in the muck, shaded by a low overhang of cypress branches. Theswamp water came up past his boots and reeked of dead things and rot.
Perfect place to leave a ghost.
He shifted just enough to keep working the angle, but the ties were still snug. Still cruel.
The two men who’d jumped him weren’t particularly skilled, but they had the advantage of surprise. They’d dragged him downriver to this godforsaken pocket of nowhere and left him here like a trussed hog.
Except one of them had made a mistake.
Patch fiddled with the blade. The knife—his knife—tucked into his boot sheath, either missed or dismissed. Rookie move. Lucky for him, he’d been able to snag it before the idiots tied him to the post, leaving him as gator feed.
He shifted, slow and patient, first dealing with the zip ties. Then grinding the bindings against the piling. The wood splintered in spots. Old. Weathered. Just like everything else in this damn swamp.
A voice carried over the water.
"They’re late,” one of the men said.
"They’ll come. You don’t walk into the viper’s nest unless you know it’s already been cleared,” the man said.
The guards. Close.
Patch didn’t have time.
He twisted, contorting his shoulder, ignoring the fire in his back. His fingers brushed the hilt of the blade.
Come on, sweetheart.
A grunt escaped through clenched teeth as he finally hooked the edge and dragged it upward. The blade fell—hit the mud—slid.
Shit.
He leaned harder, using the piling for leverage, stretching his shoulder past what any sane man should try. His fingers found the handle. Closed.
The blade flashed.
A few vicious saws later, the ropes dropped away.
He stayed low, breath shallow. His rifle was gone, but the bastards had been sloppy. One of them had slung a sidearm and left it on a crate near the skiff.
Patch moved like shadow—silent, methodical. The first guard turned just as Patch reached him.
Too late.
One hard punch to the throat, another to the temple. He dropped like a stone.
The second man fumbled for his gun.
Patch kicked it away, then buried his fist in the guy’s gut and slammed his head into the tree behind him.
