Chapter 13
Drew was alone—gasping, soaked, and reaching into the black water for the man she swore she wouldn’t fall for again. But damn it, she had.
“Cross,” she whispered, throat raw, fingers scraping through the muck as she dropped to her knees on the spongy ground, half-submerged, the bayou rising around her like it wanted to swallow her whole. “Cross!”
Nothing but silence answered. The water rippled.
Oily. Ominous. She shoved deeper, up to her elbows now, feeling blindly through lily stems and tangled roots, the acrid stench of swamp rot thick in her nose.
Her knees sank into the soft earth, and panic clawed at her chest like fire ants under her skin. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t.
“Damn you,” she muttered, blinking back tears, “if you die on me, I will find your ghost and kill it again.” A splash to her left—too big to be a gator unless it was massive.
She twisted, heart in her throat, and saw the silhouette burst from the water like something out of a nightmare—Cross and the Weasel, tangled together in a silent, primal fight, mud and blood mixing, one trying to choke the life from the other.
“Cross!” she screamed, lunging forward. But she couldn’t shoot. Not without risking him. The Weasel shoved Cross under again.
Drew didn’t think. She just moved. She launched herself forward, striking the Weasel with everything she had—elbows, fists, teeth if it came to that. She caught him off guard, just enough for Cross to twist free and suck in a desperate breath as he stumbled in the marsh.
The Weasel came back swinging, his grin as feral as ever, blood trailing from his lip like war paint. “You two are cute,” he hissed. “Like a damn swamp soap opera.”
“Eat shit,” Drew snarled, punching him square in the face. He stumbled but recovered too fast. He made a dive for her, but Cross yanked her out of the way and pulled the two of them up onto land. The Weasel surfaced and started toward them when there was a large splash off to the left.
Drew reached for her gun but realized she’d lost it somewhere in the struggle. She glanced at Cross, but he was staring just over the Weasel’s head. Drew followed his gaze.
A gator, huge and moving fast.
Cross grabbed Drew and yanked her behind him. “Run. Now.”
“I’m not leaving you!”
“Isn’t that cute?” the Weasel grinned. He pulled his gun up and took aim just as the gator reached him.
The bullet went wide, and with a squeal of pain, the Weasel disappeared under the surface.
He came back up fighting with the gator, water splashing in every direction.
It was hard to tell where man or beast ended.
Then they were gone again. Back under the surface.
Another burst of air bubbles and then silence.
It was as if the swamp had swallowed them both whole
“Come on, we’ve got to go,” Cross said as he turned Drew away from the water.”
She blinked. As awful as the Weasel was, that was just horrifying. She wanted to be sick. Man versus nature, and nature won. She gave herself a mental shake, forced down her emotions, and followed in Cross’s wake. She decided, then and there, she couldn’t get out of the swamp fast enough.
Cross took them up to a jog. “Stone didn’t sound good.
They don’t have much time,” he reminded her.
They crashed through the underbrush. Briars tore the skin on her arms, and something wet and slimy slapped across her face.
Her lungs burned. Her body screamed. But all she could focus on was the shape of Cross ahead of her, soaked and furious and very much alive.
They broke through a thick patch of cattails and into a small rise of moss-covered ground. Cross stopped, eyes scanning, chest heaving.
“Up there.” He pointed to a ridge of tangled roots and vines. “There’s a cut through the brush, maybe half a mile. Leads to another waterway.”
“No boat,” she gasped.
“We’ll find one. Or swim.”
She coughed on a laugh. “You have a lot of faith in my stamina.”
“I’ve seen it firsthand,” he shot back, his tone rough and full of something that made her heart trip over itself.
He reached for her hand. She let him.
“Let’s move.”
They scrambled through the swamp as dawn began to stretch faint fingers across the sky, casting everything in a silvery hue. The trees thinned slightly, just enough to show her a sliver of water ahead. Still and silent.
Drew didn't realize she was still holding Cross’s hand until he gave it a small squeeze.
“We’ll make it,” he said quietly. “But that was a warning.”
“You think he’s still alive?”
Cross shrugged. “Doubtful… But there will be others waiting to pick up where he left off.”
Drew squared her shoulders. “Then we make them wish they never picked this job.”
Cross gave a dry chuckle. “That’s the Drew I remember.”
Her lips quirked, but she didn’t look at him.
Because the truth was, she didn’t feel like the same Drew anymore.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be that woman.
The man beside her had crushed her heart and stolen her sense of self-worth.
It had taken her what seemed like a lifetime to get it back.
She knew now that she was enough. Always had been, and she didn’t want to get involved in anything or anyone that would make her doubt herself again, no matter how much she loved him.
The river opened before them, dark and sluggish, cutting through the tangle of trees like a wound in the earth.
Dawn’s early light shimmered faintly on the surface, painting everything in shades of silver and ash.
Drew’s legs ached, and every inch of her was soaked, scratched, and mosquito-bitten. But they’d made it. Almost.
Cross reached for the embankment, hauling himself halfway up with a grunt. Drew was right behind him when the click of a safety disengaging stopped them cold.
“Don’t move.”
Two men stepped out of the shadows, weapons leveled. One was older, scar down his cheek. The other looked barely old enough to shave, but the Glock in his hand was steady. Rodriguez’s men. Drew’s stomach dropped.
“Well, well,” the older one said, leering. “We were wondering how long it would take you to crawl out of the swamp.”
Cross didn’t hesitate. His arm swept up, one fluid motion. A shot rang out, echoing like a crack of thunder, and the younger man stumbled back, his body jerking as the bullet punched into his chest. He fell into the water, limbs twitching, and vanished beneath the surface without a sound.
“Son of a bitch!” The second man lunged, catching Cross off balance and slamming him to the ground. His gun clattered into the weeds.
Drew dropped to her knees, scrambling to grab it, but the man backhanded her hard, sending her sprawling.
Dazed, she blinked back stars as Cross fought to rise, the attacker now pummeling him with quick, savage blows.
Cross grunted, twisted, and got an elbow in.
The man staggered, and Drew took her chance—she slammed her boot into his knee.
He yelled, buckling just enough for Cross to get free. But instead of running, the man grabbed Drew, spinning her around and locking an arm around her throat. A cold barrel pressed against her ribs.
“One more move,” he panted, “and she dies.”
Cross froze.
“Let her go,” he growled.
“You want her? Then don’t follow.” Blood trickled down the side of the man’s face, his grip trembling. “You’ve already cost us too much.”
He started dragging Drew backward, up the embankment, toward the road. She fought—kicking, twisting—but the man seemed to be running on pure adrenaline now, desperate enough to do anything.
They reached a battered black sedan just off the tree line. The engine was already idling, a third man behind the wheel. The man yanked the back door open and shoved Drew inside. She caught one last glimpse of Cross, eyes blazing, hand reaching—then the gun fired.
A flash. A deafening roar. And Cross jerked as the bullet tore into him.
Drew screamed and lunged toward the door. But the man dove in behind her and slammed it shut. The car peeled out, tires spitting mud as it tore down the path.
Drew twisted in the seat, breath caught in her chest. Through the dust and branches, she saw him—Cross—half in the river, blood blooming around him like an ink stain.
Then he disappeared beneath the surface. And she screamed.