Either they brought Langley and Herrera to their knees, or they died trying.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rain sheeted across the windshield as the SUV nosed into a shadowed service lane behind a large, nondescript warehouse several blocks upriver from where they’d infiltrated the barge. Fog clotted the brackish water, lights in the distance giving it an eerie yellowed glow.
Riven sat in the back, rechecking her Glock for the fiftieth time as Patch pulled in behind Cross and Stone’s truck, the two vehicles partially hidden behind a stack of pallets. The engine coughed once, then died, as he looked at her in the rearview before jumping out — clipping a med kit and some tools onto his vest.
McGuire stepped out next to her, back straight, muscles primed. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze frequently slipping toward her as if he needed to assure himself she hadn’t vanished. That they still had a chance at the future he’d mentioned.
His hand landed on her back, the familiar weight stealing her breath. She glanced over at him, noting the tight lines, how he seemed to force air in, then pushed it out.
He looked as if he wanted to say something before he nodded at his team. “One last run through. Stone. Cross. Overwatch. Ifsomeone so much as breathes in our direction, I want to know about it. We’ll head in. Mark the containers with the UV pen for identification by the task force team, grab whatever evidence we can, then bug out. No noise. No interactions. Then, we send everything to Savvy and wait for the cavalry. They’ve been instructed not to move until they get the green light.”
Stone and Cross saluted, then took off for opposite rooflines. What would give them the best vantage points —provide McGuire with the most up-to-date intel. Riven waited until they’d disappeared into the night before checking her equipment one last time, pushing past McGuire.
He hooked her arm, held her still as he leaned in. “I know how bad we all want this, but it’s not worth dying over, so…”
“Telling you not to die is my line.”
“Then, follow it.” He dipped down, planted a quick, hard kiss on her lips. “We’ve got your six.”
Riven stared up at him, the pressure of his mouth on hers still lingering on her flesh as those four words echoed around them.
They had her six.
And she’d be damned if she let them down.
Determination eased some of the heaviness as she palmed her weapon, darted down the alley, across a swath of scrubby grass, then over to a large dumpster. She ducked behind it, peering around the edge at the warehouse looming out of the fog like an omen. The scattering of red exterior lights giving it an almost demonic glow.
A couple box trucks idled near the third bay down along the pier, what sounded like a forklift backing up somewhere inside, the incessant beeping cutting through the air. She pointed to the cameras positioned on the corners, both panning the grounds on a steady, ten-second loop.
A hint of static crackled over their comms, then Stone’s low voice. “Two men at the front gate, four walking the perimeter. Forklifts are active. Looks like they’re loading last-minute.”
McGuire acknowledged with a single click as he and Patch motioned to the recessed door on the nearest wall, holding firm until both cameras swept away before hoofing it over to the corrugated metal siding. They hid in the shadows, waiting for the next loop, then ducked beneath a shallow overhang above a rust-streaked personnel door near a dripping downspout.
The men took point, carbines notched in their shoulders, gazes searching the shadows as Riven snagged a screwdriver, levered it beneath the latch, then popped it on the next echoed beep. The metal groaned, then gave, a few rivets clattering onto the rain-slick cement. She slivered it open, checked the immediate vicinity, then slipped inside, the men pouring in behind her before the cameras panned back — gave them away.
Diesel exhaust choked the air, hints of ammonia lingering on some of the surfaces. Voices carried in from the main staging area, momentarily cut off by the thump of containers hitting the floor.
Riven glanced at Patch and McGuire, easing forward once they’d nodded. A dimly lit hallway joined the small break room with the rest of the warehouse, a hanging sheet of plastic strips separating it from the chaos.
Their comms buzzed, Cross’ voice coming in low. “The warehouse is brimming with unfriendlies. I’ve got one guard on a perimeter lap every four minutes. He just passed your twenty. Area should be clear for another three.”
McGuire replied with the same single click, then inched up beside her as she drew back a section of the plastic. A melee of pallets, forklifts, and shrink-wrapped containers clogged the main floor, men with cartel ink and holstered guns moving like ants around the room. A line of labeled crates snaked alongthe other side, placards quoting “fertilizer” visible through her scope.
If their intel was right and this was Herrera’s shipment, those crates were the ones Langley’s man, Keane, would use to hide the explosives before mixing them in with the rest of the cargo. The cartel’s version of an oversized cup game.
Riven sighed. “We need to get closer to those containers before they leave.”
The muscle in McGuire’s temple flexed as he clenched his jaw, his gaze sliding to Patch, then back. “We’ll hug the perimeter — shadow that guard. Patch’ll hang here in case we need a diversion.”
Patch mumbled something about being the third wheel before slinking off to the side — hunkering down behind a stack of drums. McGuire scanned the area, then motioned to his right. Riven snugged up against the wall, following it around to the back. A man in black tactical gear moved in front of them, his flashlight bouncing over boxes and discarded equipment.
They stayed in the shadows, hit the floor when the asshole glanced back — swept the beam across his six. McGuire aimed his rifle, held it firm until the guy shook his head, walked off.
Sweat beaded her skin, oil and dirt smeared across her clothes once they finally stood, continued around to the other side of the room.
The guard mumbled a rough, “Clear,” into a radio, ambling toward the large bay doors, whistling under his breath.
