Chapter 10 #2
Cross glanced back at Drew, still sitting breathless on the cot, the expression on her face twitching between hurt and pissed. “Yeah, she’s here.”
“I need to extract her. Word has gone out. I’ve heard from sources in Florida and here. Rodriguez has added Drew to the bounty. He’s pissed that she helped you and made him look bad. She’s not safe.”
“I know.”
There was a pause. “Can you get her to the drop by midnight?”
Cross hesitated. He didn’t want to let her go. Not yet. Not like this. But he had to. “I’ll get her there.”
After he ended the call, he turned to find Drew watching him with narrowed eyes.
“You’re sending me away?”
“It’s not safe here anymore.”
She folded her arms. “No kidding. I noticed when your buddy the spider tried to take out a life insurance policy.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to leave you.” She swallowed. “I mean…leave you here by yourself. You need help.”
His chest tightened. “And I don’t want you dead.”
She flinched. “You think I can’t handle myself?”
“I think I’m worried about you, which makes you a liability.
” He didn’t add that Drew was the only thing he cared about at the moment, and that was the reason she was a liability.
If the Weasel got her and it was her life or Tessa’s, Cross would give Tessa up in a heartbeat and then spend the rest of his life torturing himself about it. No, Drew had to go.
“Wow,” she said with a bitter laugh. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Drew…” He stepped forward, but she held up a hand.
“No. You’re right. It’s better if I go.”
They both fell silent, the weight of everything left unsaid stretching between them. Finally, she looked at him again, her voice quieter now. “Where’s the drop?”
“There’s a shack near Devil’s Elbow. McGuire will meet us there by boat.”
“When do we leave?”
“A few hours after nightfall.”
She nodded once. “Fine.”
Cross didn’t move for a long moment, just stood there watching her in the weak late afternoon light. There was a part of him that wanted to pull her into his arms again, kiss her until they both forgot the danger, the mission, the weight of what still hung between them. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
If he let himself love her again, truly love her, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it a second time.
And he knew damn well—neither of them was getting out of this clean.
The air was thick with midnight sweat as Cross pushed the flat-bottomed skiff away from his rickety dock.
The moon hung low over the swamp, its glow breaking through the tangled canopy in fractured beams. Spanish moss swayed overhead like ghostly fingers, and the water below was as black as oil, broken only by the occasional flick of something unseen just beneath the surface.
Drew sat opposite him, her silhouette obscured by the shadows of the mosquito netting rigged around the skiff’s frame. Her shoulders were tense, arms folded tight across her chest, but her eyes didn’t miss a thing. She scanned the water the same way he did—like it might bite.
Cross kept the engine low as they drifted through the channel, the putter of the outboard barely louder than the drone of insects.
The swamp pressed in from all sides—reeds thick as walls, trees leaning toward each other like they were plotting.
Out here, even sound moved differently. Softer.
Slower. Like the whole world was holding its breath.
He gripped the tiller, eyes sweeping the shadows ahead.
“Devil’s Elbow’s about fifteen minutes out,” he muttered.
Drew nodded, saying nothing. Her hand slipped toward the Glock at her hip. Good girl.
The knot of dread in Cross’s gut had been growing heavier since they left the dock.
He didn’t like this. Too still. Too easy.
His instincts weren’t just buzzing—they were screaming.
And years in the field had taught him that gut feelings were usually just your subconscious stitching together clues your brain hadn’t caught yet.
He shut off the motor.
“What—” Drew started, but he raised a hand to stop her.
They drifted. Silence wrapped around them like a wet blanket. No frogs. No birds. Even the bugs had gone still.
Cross angled the skiff toward the reeds, letting the hull glide into a patch of shadows near a fallen cypress log. He picked up the paddle and nudged them into cover, killing any sound.
Drew leaned toward him, whispering low. “What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She nodded once. Quiet. Alert. The professional side of her always kicked in when it counted.
He scanned the channel ahead, narrowing his eyes. There. Something shifted in the water. A faint wake. Too slow for a gator. Too smooth for a natural current. His hand moved to the rifle near his feet. Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been him.
The Weasel was like smoke—no one ever saw him coming, and they weren’t alive to hear him leave. He was a ghost with a deadly mission, and he’d made a name off the backs of dead men who never even had a chance. If he were here, they were already in his sights.
The boat rocked gently below them. Drew’s hand brushed his. He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes forward. And then… movement. Cross crouched lower. But instead of gunfire, a low ripple broke through the dark, followed by the quiet scrape of wood on water.
A narrow canoe emerged from the tree line, the figure paddling it eerily quiet, nothing but muscle memory and experience guiding each stroke.
Cross relaxed—barely.
“Rick,” he called softly.
The man in the canoe lifted his chin in greeting and brought his boat alongside theirs.
“Close call,” Cross muttered, lowering the rifle.
Rick’s eyes flicked toward Drew. “She’s got good instincts. Stays low. Watches her six.”
“I taught her that,” Cross said.
Rick smirked. “Sure you did.”
“I’m dropping her at Devil’s Elbow.”
“No.” Rick’s voice was so quiet, Cross thought he’d misheard.
“What?”
“It’s not safe. Someone came through the outer edge of the slough an hour ago. Real quiet. Didn’t get through, but got close enough to set off the trip line.”
Drew shifted slowly, pushing the netting aside so she could hear better.
“You see who it was?” Cross asked.
“Nope. Too dark. But it wasn’t one of ours.”
“You sure?”
Rick shrugged. “Could’ve been, but…,” he shook his head, “it wasn’t.
No gear. No light. Whoever it was, they were moving with purpose—and stealth.
Stepped right over the root traps like they knew where they were.
That ain’t local. None of us would go near them just in case we fell or forgot exactly where they were.
And whoever they were, they passed the second trip line about a hundred yards from the water path. ”
Cross’s jaw tightened. That was too close. “Damn,” he muttered softly. “How the hell could they find me back here?”
Rick shrugged. “Like I said earlier, one person saying something is all it takes, and money makes people remember a whole lot.
Cross’s gut churned. He’d wanted to think it was Rodriguez or Charlie or someone like that, but he knew deep down, instinctively, it was the Weasel.”
Drew met Cross’s gaze in the ambient light. “It’s the Weasel, isn’t it?”
“How the hell did he get involved in your mess?”
“Supposedly, Rodriguez hired him.” Cross frowned as he glanced at his watch. They didn’t have much time before they were supposed to meet with McGuire.
Rick was silent for a moment, and then he nodded. “Could definitely be the Weasel. Feels like him. Quiet. Surgical. Got that... predator vibe. You know what he looks like?”
“Not many do. He changes constantly. The only reason I ever saw a photo was because he killed someone on our side once. He’s former military. Intel flagged him as ghost-level. Dangerous enough to burn cities down for the right price.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the stories,” Rick said. “Hell of a ghost to have on your trail.”
“Do you think we can make it to meet McGuire?” Drew asked.
Cross looked at Rick. The other man shrugged slightly but then shook his head. “If it’s the Weasel, I think your window of opportunity has closed. He’s between you and Devil’s Elbow. You’ll have to go past him to make it.”
Cross had been thinking the same thing. If they went, and they made it…
Two very big ifs…they’d have to keep on going.
Both of them. There was no way he’d make it past the Weasel twice without some kind of contact.
He didn’t care so much about his vulnerability, but he needed to make sure Drew was safe, and then there was the question of Tessa. Rock and a hard place sucked. “Shit.”
“It’s safer to go back,” Drew stated. Her tone was even, but her shoulders sagged.
“Yes,” Cross agreed. It was killing him that he couldn’t get her out of there. “I’ll call McGuire once we’re back at the shack. We’ll have to regroup and come up with a new plan.”
Drew nodded but said nothing.
“Give me your friend’s number,” Rick suggested. “I’ll text him and tell him what’s up. Then I’ll poke around a bit and let you know what I find.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger.”
Rick half smiled. “You would do the same for me.”
Cross still hesitated, but Rick was right; he would do the same for him or anyone else on the bayou. They’d taken him in, in a way, and he appreciated it. “Okay.” Cross gave him McGuire’s number, and then they said their goodbyes.
Cross turned the motor back on, keeping it at a whisper, and turned the boat back towards the shack—a silent shadow cutting through the water. But even as they moved, Cross couldn’t shake it—that feeling crawling up his spine.
Something was definitely out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And this time, he wasn’t sure they’d see it coming.