A click, then silence, just the engines growling beside them, the compressor humming along. Riven readied the small unit, still hunched behind the machine when an alarm wailed overhead, red light strobing through the warehouse. Shouts rose above the din, a mix of Spanish and English yelling out orders. The forklifts stopped, cargo abandoned mid-haul as they raced for the entrance.
Riven didn’t wait for McGuire to tell her to go, just popped out, sprinted toward the containers. She slid in behind one when a group of PMC assholes barreled into the warehouse, clearing the cargo before turning, standing guard.
She snapped the tracker into place, took a breath, then ran back, body hunched, boots barely making a sound. McGuirepulled her in behind the unit, looking as if he’d aged five years before peering out the other side.
A wave and a point, and they booked it toward the wall, diving into the shadows before the men turned, caught them mid-stride. McGuire rolled to his feet, covered their retreat, that alarm still shrieking. Something hissing a couple bays over.
They retraced their steps, reached the halfway point, when that guard ghosted out of the darkness, flashlight searching the shadows, rifle at his waist. He panned left, caught Riven in the beam as she tried to change direction mid-stride. The man’s eyes widened, mouth gaping open before he reacted — lifted his weapon.
McGuire moved. Lunged forward like he had at the bar, a blur of black against the gray. Two steps, and he had the rifle knocked sideways, muzzle pointing at the wall. Another two, and he’d fully engaged. Had the guy staggering back, strikes to his throat and chest tumbling him backwards. The guard tried to counter, land a hook to McGuire’s ribs, only to crumple mid-swing, eyes rolled back, every breath a gurgled wheeze.
Riven darted in beside McGuire, wondering how she managed to avoid the cartel for two weeks without a partner, when he grabbed her hand — took off. They hit the plastic strips running full out, tearing several as they raced through, made a beeline for the door.
Patch met them at the exit, clothes soaked, some kind of white foam stuck to his boots. He didn’t talk, just showed the countdown on one hand, then bolted for the dumpster. They hit it still running flat out, detoured toward their SUV, then hopped inside.
Stone and Cross materialized out of the eerie fog a minute later, jumped in their ride. They pulled in behind Patch as he turned onto an alley that paralleled the pier, stopping a block over to double check the signal.
Riven launched her tracker app, handing her phone to McGuire. “Signal’s strong. Looks like they’re waiting for something.”
“Or maybe, someone.” Patch glanced at her. “I heard one of Keane’s men say Langley’s definitely on his way. Chopper. They’re set to meet after they shove off.”
Riven bit back a curse. “Which means, we need to get onboard and deactivate the daisy chain before Langley arrives with half of Senator Morrison’s security force. If that happens…”
McGuire nodded. “We’re screwed. So, let’s stop this before that bastard gets here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The rain had eased slightly when the convoy finally started moving, the dot on the screen slowly jerking ahead. Fog curled over the pavement, bouncing their headlights back at them as they moved along the network of backroads, keeping that dot a good five hundred meters in front of them.
McGuire sat in the passenger seat, alternating his gaze between the gray scenery and Riven. Sitting in the middle of the backseat, the dash lights glowing softly on her skin, she looked more like an angel than the whirlwind who’d just cost him ten years of his life. When she’d darted out to deploy the tracker as that PMC crew had barreled in…
He’d watched the rest of his life play out before him. Cold. Dull. And all because he’d imagined she hadn’t been a part of it.
She’d impressed him. Again. Proof he needed to get his head out of his ass — be the man she needed him to be. Not the one he suspected had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
She must have felt him staring because she glanced over at him, smiled. His heart kicked. Hard. Stole his breath. And he knew, if they made it out in one piece, he’d stop treading water — start living.
Patch slowed the vehicle as they crested a levee, pulled over to the side of the road, the cartel’s pier spread out before them. Muted lights smeared the top of the rippling black water, the harbor’s glow casting the entire area into an eerie yellow mass.
McGuire raised his scope as he scanned the dock. A wide, rusty barge rode low in the river, the blunt-ended stern nosed into the quay, as a tug idled alongside. Out in the channel, a matte-black fast boat swept the river like a shark, the wake peeling out behind it in a ribbon of white. A large crane moved the pallets onto the deck, a familiar silhouette standing near the center.
ElMartillo.
Riven sighed behind McGuire, a similar scope pressed to her eye. “I assume that growl means you’ve spottedMartillo. I swear that guy’s got more lives than a cat.”
McGuire glanced back at her. “I didn’t growl.”
She laughed. “You keep on telling yourself that.” She adjusted the scope, huffed. “Tug’s already tethered. They’re launching as soon as that last crate’s been secured.”
She panned right, cursed. “Guess it was too much to think Keane would hand this whole thing off. Quite the rig he’s got for patrolling. That boat’ll outrun most law enforcement vessels.”
McGuire shifted his gaze, landed on Keane standing off to the side, phone glowing from his front shirt pocket, the fast boat curving in close to the pier for a moment before peeling back out. “He’s got the damn deadman switch on his phone. And with zero cover along the wharf, there’s no way we could get to him before he’d spot us — blows the entire shipment.” He tapped his comms. “Hey, Stone? Any trailing traffic?”
Stone breathed into the mic. “We’re two hundred meters back and the road’s clear.”
“Roger. I need you and Cross to roll up behind us, then each find a place to camp. I want eyes on the water. A clear sightline to that barge.”
“Roger, boss.”
