Patch frowned. “You sure? I’ve never noticed it before.”
She slipped in beside him, placed her hand on the tiller. “I’ll steer — you shoot.”
He glanced at McGuire, then shifted, took McGuire’s spot on the bow as McGuire planted his ass next to her, focused on the men behind them.
She glanced over her shoulder, gauging the distance, when his hand landed in her hair, twisted her head back to the river.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her neck. “Eyes forward. I’ve got our six.”
She swallowed, choked, a wave of heat burning across her skin. She rolled her shoulders, tried to shake off the feel of his fingers in her hair as she veered right, then banked the boat hard to the left. The hull rocked, grass and reeds flattening in front asshe plowed through the marsh, fireflies blinking around them. She hit an old dock post, lifted the blades out of the water as they scraped over a buried sandbar, rocks and stumps scratching the bottom of the skiff.
Patch cursed, muttering something about it being too shallow when they cleared the grass, a swath of black water stretching out in front.
She tipped the propellor back beneath the surface, gave the motor more gas, those boats closing in behind them as the first one hit the bar, stopped dead. The men lurched forward, toppled into the water with splashes and curses, the front end already dipping under the surface.
The second veered off, paralleled them on the main line, the men standing tall in the hopes of getting a better sightline. McGuire slipped to her other side, his body pressed against hers as he leveled his Sig, pulled the trigger.
The front gunner jerked, tumbled onto his ass a second later. The other guy took a couple shots, missed wide before McGuire fired, again. Dropped him over the side. The boat angled off, the silhouette fading into the night.
She stared up at him. She’d never seen someone hit targets with sniper accuracy while skipping over the water using only a Sig.
He glanced back at her, brow furrowing as he swept his gaze down, then up. “You hit?”
She blinked, snapped back. “No. But I don’t think they’re gone for good.”
She slowed, took the next curving branch that cut behind an old bait shop and a rusted shrimp boat. Bald cypress trees draped in Spanish moss lined the shoreline, the delicate fingers making small ripples in the water. Lily pads and duckweed floated across the surface, interrupting the wavering reflection of the lush greenery in the rising moonlight. An owl calledsomewhere offshore, the mournful sound lingering in the hot breeze.
Off to the right, a gator slid into the water with a lazy ripple, its red eyes blinking along the surface as they slipped past. Riven angled the skiff toward a low-lying bridge, killed the engine, then drifted along, the current gradually slowing them down.
She pointed to the overhanging beam. “Patch. Grab the crossbeam.”
Patch rose, braced his palms on the slick creosote, and caught their momentum like a gymnast, his boots hissing along the deck as the skiff came to a silent, perfect halt.
An old jalopy rattled across the wooden bridge a moment later, raining dust and old leaves down over them. Up river, the other Jon boat revved its engines, men shouting at shadows as they searched the shoreline, the noise finally fading into the distance. The frog song and cicadas returned, the buzz of insects humming along the riverbank.
They waited another twenty minutes before slipping out, skipping their way back along the waterway. McGuire directed her down another route, holding his hand up once they’d reached a secluded section she hadn’t ventured on before.
He reached over, killed the motor. Nothing but the silvery light of the moon brightening his face.
Riven took the opportunity to study them. Run through the questions that had been tumbling through her mind since they’d first entered the bar months ago. She’d known instantly they weren’t civilians. Not with how they moved, breathed — as if they read a room by the way the air moved. How the sound traveled. She would have pegged them as threats if they hadn’t exuded an overwhelming sense of honor.
She’d done a bit of digging, used Savvy’s secure setup to run background checks, but she’d come up empty. No records, no photos, no anything. Which meant they likely shared her fate.Had moved here to disappear. Fade into the black water the way she had.
Riven shifted her gaze to McGuire. He’d gotten under her skin from the moment they’d met. Like a song she couldn’t stop singing. And she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she’d met him before.
She hadn’t, but that sense of déjà vu hadn’t eased.
McGuire narrowed his eyes, studying her for what felt like forever before he sighed, braced his elbows on his knees. “You’re not a bartender.”
She let a hint of a smile show through as she glanced between him and Patch. “And you two aren’t bodyguards.”
He shrugged. “Technically, we are.”
“And technically, I’ve been pouring drinks for five months.”
He grinned. Not forced, just an easy curve of his lips that got her heart pounding faster than the damn battle. He motioned to her bag shoved under the seat. “Most civilians don’t have go-bags stashed in a hidden panel.”
“And most bodyguards don’t move like they’ve spent a lifetime living in the shadows.”
