She landed a bit harder than intended, hit her hip on the floor before scrambling to her feet. She dodged the next wave of people and headed for McGuire’s last position when she spotted those three firemen, again.
Keane’s crew.
It all clicked together, then. The fire, the chaos, the men. They’d already been planning on grabbing the ledger, maybe destroying it, and Riven’s team had simply gotten in the way.
She tapped her mic, shoving her way through the crowd, hoping McGuire and Patch might hear her above the roar of the crowd, the constant crackle of the fire. “McGuire, bandits on your three o’clock. Dressed in fireman gear.” She inched closer, then got tugged back for a moment by four friends swarming their way past her.
She tapped the mic again. “McGuire!”
A garbled message crackled through, followed by grunts and shouts. Patch appeared in front of her, people parting around him as if he had some kind of forcefield. Though, it was likely more his presence — shoulders firmed, lethal intent rolling off him in waves, he’d slipped into prime warrior mode. And it showed.
The crowd thinned just enough to catch a glimpse of McGuire as those men engaged. Lunging at him in a coordinated attack. He downed the first guy before he got within a foot of him, the second reeling backwards a moment later.
He used the ledger as a weapon on the third, slamming it twice against the asshole’s throat, then across his head. The guy bounced, stumbled back, opening up a lane when one of theother men tossed a lit fuel canister off the wall, spewed jellied alcohol and blue flames across the floor.
The fuel splashed over McGuire, a few embers smoldering on his jacket when one caught the old ledger paper, set it off like a damn Roman candle. Flames clawed at the binding, quickly spreading to the sheets underneath.
Herrera’s main lieutenants finally pushed their way through, closing in on McGuire when Patch steamrolled them against the wall — moved in for the finish. McGuire dropped to the floor, tried to beat out the flames before shaking his head — slicing the spine and grabbing a handful of sheets. Whatever he could salvage before the entire book turned to ash.
Burning paper billowed into the air as the binding dropped, sizzling as it landed on the fuel-soaked carpet, a series of fire doors rolling down in the background, compressing the space, corralling everyone closer together as the crowds pushed their way toward the congested exits. Sirens wailed in the distance, more of Bram’s men swarming the floor.
McGuire managed to trip his way over, the ends of his sleeves charred, a long slit across his jacket. He shoved the few pages he’d salvaged into his pocket, scanning the room as their options quickly narrowed.
Heavy furrows lined his brow as he shook his head. “Talk about a clusterfuck.”
Riven shouldered up close to him, still scanning the room. “Pretty damn sure Keane was making a play tonight, too, we just happened to get into the middle of a grudge match between him and Herrera’s thugs. None of which matters if we can’t find a way out.”
Patch motioned toward the exit. “We just head out with… shit.”
Keane.
Prowling across the floor, lips curled into a snarl, blood dripping from where she’d cold-cocked him with her heel. Four more men fanned out behind him, vests laced with grenades and extra ammo. They split, each taking a side, effectively eliminating any hope of slipping out with the crowd.
Riven grabbed McGuire’s hand, tugged him toward her. “Service corridor. We don’t stop until we’re out.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ten percent.
That’s how much of the ledger McGuire had saved. A fraction of what they needed to crucify Langley. Yet, more than enough to get them all killed.
He pushed down the anger and frustration, palmed Riven’s back — followed her, moving toward the service hallway. Their only hope at escaping unscathed.
The slight burn on the back of his hand mocked him. It was more of a singe than anything else — a constant reminder of all they’d lost. What he could still lose if he didn’t get Riven and Patch to safety.
Riven fumbled with her dress, pulled a Beretta twenty-two out of some kind of thigh holster. One he hadn’t even noticed because god knew he’d looked — had been unable to take his gaze off her from the moment she’d stepped out of the bathroom at the rundown gas station where they’d changed —that black dress hugging her body, nearly dropping him to his knees. She’d pinned her hair into some fancy style, hints of jasmine and rose clinging to her skin. He’d drank her in, wondering how he’d resisted asking her out all those months before plastering on a smile, ushering her into the taxi.
Since then, he’d been acutely aware of every curve. How her hair hung loosely down her back. Even now, racing for the hallway, her perfume wove around him — took away the stench of smoke and despair.
They reached the doorway as the main power kicked off — gave them a moment of cover before the next strobe bathed the room in a flash of white light. He looked back at the black, skeletal remains of the ledger smoldering on the casino’s floor, bits of paper swirling into the air. Keane knelt beside it, lighter in hand before he ignited the edge, watched it crumple into ash.
McGuire groaned inwardly. He wasn’t sure if Keane destroying what remained was a blessing or a curse, only that it reinforced the reeling sensation in his gut.
That at the very least, he needed to get his team clear.
Riven hit the door, barreled through, her weapon sweeping the corridor, emergency lights cutting through the shadows. Patch followed, laid down some cover fire behind them before hoofing it along the hallway. They poured through a narrow doorway into the kitchen, oil sizzling on the griddle, the stainless-steel pans reflecting the growing orange glow from the adjoining room.
Footsteps followed behind them, Keane shouting orders, smoke choking out the oxygen. Laser sights cut through the gray mass, tiny dots mapping out their progression.
