“Riven — stairs!”
She jerked her head toward his voice, pushed to her feet and stumbled across the room, bouncing off a few of the pipes before grabbing the rail. She blinked, took the hand he offered and tripped up the steps.
Bruises had already bloomed on her right cheek, lines of road-rash peppered her exposed skin. More marks peeked out from beneath her shirt, but no obvious wounds like the ones he’d been imagining.
He made a mental note to treat them all later, then tugged her close. “You’re insane. You should have run when that asshole showed up.”
“Would you?”
He snorted, dropped a kiss on her forehead before he could overthink it, then darted to the doorway. Patch stood just inside, eyeing both ends of the hallway as they moved in behind him.
He looked at Riven, frowned, then motioned left. “We’ve got a lull. We should book it to the wheelhouse while they’re regrouping.”
McGuire nodded. “You take point, buddy. I’ll have our six. And Riven…” He moved in closer. “If you think you’re gonna puke or pass out because of what went on down there, you fucking say something. No hero shit, remember?”
She tiptoed up, looked as if she might kiss him before shaking her head. “Wish you’d reminded me of that before I picked a fight withMartillo.”
McGuire bit back a growl, checked the hallway again before following her and Patch down the corridor. The trawler listed hard with each punishing swell, dipping one way, then swinging the other.
Riven kept one palm on the wall, maintaining Patch’s quick pace as they retraced their steps — took a different door farther forward. What McGuire prayed led to the wheelhouse. Voices shouted around them, hollow taps echoing in every direction.
A hiss of static, then Cross on comms. “I’ve got men mobilizing on the stern. Looks like they’re readying another one of those Jon boats. You guys need to hit the water before it does. We’re on the move in ninety. Don’t make us look bad by not being there.”
They reached the wheelhouse in perfect formation, Patch sweeping in like a ghost. He downed the guy at the helm before they’d taken more than a step inside, leaving McGuire to eliminate the two assholes standing guard, while Patch fired a few rounds into the console. Sparks spit at the air, tendrils of smoke twirling up from the surface as the gauges fell flat.
Patch checked the feed, just to be sure, then shouldered the exterior exit, diving back amidst a flurry of bullets. A few rounds pinged off the frame, hit the other side of the wall.
Footsteps tapped along the hallway, men racing toward the wheelhouse as another group flanked outside, their silhouettes passing the windows. Patch and McGuire each grabbed a flashbang, pulled the pins, then tossed them at the advancing men. The canisters bounced once before erupting into a blaze of white light and noise.
The double impact rattled McGuire’s head until he swore he heard music before he staggered to his feet, fired off some cover rounds, then hauled Riven up and against his chest. She blinked, looked as if she might puke, her skin ashen, eyes wide.
Patch tumbled against the exit, waved them through, tossing another smoke grenade for good measure. Anyone still standing dove for cover, a thick blue plume snaking out a moment later. The wind sheared it sideways, blowing some back into the cabinas McGuire wrapped his arm around Riven, carried her to the side of the trawler.
Angry waves kissed the boat, spraying up and over the side as the vessel bobbed across the surface, all but dead in the water. Rain slicked the metal railing, knifed into the swells as the waves rocked the boat.
He didn’t wait to see if she could jump on her own, just palmed the side, vaulted over with her in his arms. She inhaled, everything pausing for a moment as they caught the trough, fell below the next wave before plunging beneath the surface.
The cold, black water hit him like a fist, closing in around him as he gave Riven a shove — got her heading for the surface. He swam up beside her, held her elbow as they crested the water. The next wave crashed over them, pulled them down for a moment before spitting them back up.
Riven shook her head, treading water as Patch powered through the current, closed ranks around her. McGuire glanced back at the trawler. Listing back and forth, the boat looked like a black stain against the harbor lights. The emergency generator still hummed in the background, the odd red light flickering to life.
El Martillostood on the deck, silhouette backlit by the distant pier. A few muzzle flashes lit the darkness before he waved to his men, disappeared toward the stern.
Patch groaned. “I don’t like the look of that. Didn’t Cross say something about a Jon boat?”
McGuire nodded, fighting the tug of the water. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance your flashbang damaged…”
He trailed off as a motor coughed in the distance, a light cutting through the inky black behind the trawler. McGuire scanned the shoreline, gauging if they could reach the reeds before the boat closed in on them when Stone’s voice carried over the water.
“On your six.”
McGuire turned, exhaled as Stone maneuvered a skiff in beside them, the boat nearly invisible amidst the waves. McGuire helped Riven up first, accepting Stone’s hand as Cross pulled Patch over the side. The boat teetered from the added weight, sinking a bit lower in the water before Stone had the boat turned around, pushed it into a short plane before it leveled out.
Cross tapped on his jammer. “Jammer’s still active, but I’m not getting any incoming signals. Looks like that Jon boat’s comms unit is fried.”
McGuire nodded. “One small mercy. Now, we just need to worry if the bastard can get a cell signal — call in the attack once we’re out of range.”
Riven accepted the blanket Stone handed her, wet hair whipping in the wind. “That might be hard seeing as I cracked his phone, kicked it behind some pipes.”
