Chapter 26
Cross watched Rodriguez through his scope. The man was putting on a show of being calm, but Cross could see the sweat shining on his face. He was anything but calm.
“Tessa, you bitch,” Rodriguez snarled, “I’m gonna enjoy killing you when all this is over.”
“Lovely to see you too, Octavio.” She sent him a sneering smile, then turned to the other guy. “Miguel isn’t it? I remember you. Aren’t you Hector Belasco’s guy?” She shook her head. “You must really be in trouble, Octavio. Belasco sent in one of his top guns.”
Rodriguez sneered. “Let’s get this done, bitch.”
Tessa smiled. “Did you bring the money?”
Rodriguez snapped his fingers, and one of his henchmen held up a bag and unzipped it. The bag was full of money.
“Good,” Tessa said. “You can throw it over here and give me Drew. Then I’ll give you the keys to the truck.”
The man next to Rodriguez, Miguel, did not seem happy. Was the money a surprise to him? Maybe. Cross was not pleased about any kind of surprises at this point. Even the tiniest surprise could sink the whole exchange.
“To confirm, the guy on the right, Miguel, is cartel. I recognize the tattoo on the back of his neck,” Patch commented from his perch on top of the semi.
“He didn’t seem pleased when Tessa mentioned money,” McGuire added. “I think Rodriguez has been keeping secrets.”
“I got that impression too,” Cross agreed in a low voice, “Miguel’s not a happy camper.
” Cross kept his cheek pressed to the stock, scope fixed on Rodriguez’s face.
Miguel shifted his stance, weight forward, eyes flicking to the bag of cash and then back to Rodriguez.
The kind of look a man gives when he’s deciding if it’s worth killing the man beside him.
“Cartel boy’s finger just brushed his trigger,” Patch murmured through the earbud. “Prepare for fireworks.”
Cross’s jaw tightened. “Tessa,” he said quietly, “be ready to move.”
She gave the barest nod without looking toward him. “Drew first,” she called out, her tone light, almost mocking. “I’m not negotiating for my health here. Bring her out, and you can have your shipment.”
Cross waited, body in that oddly relaxed yet tense state, ready for anything.
Would Rodriguez try to take out the cartel guys here or wait until he had the shipment and take them out from the rooftops as they drove out?
Considering the men he had on the roof, that would seem like the plan.
He only hoped it was true. Being in the middle of a firefight between two cartel factions was dead last on his list of things to do.
Rodriguez’s mouth twisted. He jerked his chin at another man, who disappeared behind the door to the SUV and then reappeared a moment later, yanking Drew forward by the zip tie around her wrists.
She stumbled, hair falling into her face, and Cross’s pulse kicked hard against his throat.
The tape over her mouth made his gut churn.
The gunman bent down and cut the zip ties on Drew’s feet, but left her hands tied and the tape over her mouth.
Miguel took one slow step closer to Rodriguez, the tension rolling off him thick enough to brush against Cross, a hundred yards away.
“Something’s about to break,” McGuire murmured.
He wasn’t wrong. The way Rodriguez’s eyes flicked between Tessa and the man beside him was a clear sign their alliance was hanging by a thread.
A single wrong word, a single twitch of a trigger finger, and the whole thing would go to hell.
Whatever the plan was, it looked like it might be falling apart.
Judging by the sweat now staining the front of his shirt, panic was blooming in Rodriguez, and Miguel seemed to have a hair trigger.
Cross adjusted his aim, shifting the scope from Rodriguez’s temple to the cartel man’s chest. His breathing slowed, muscles coiling, waiting for the moment when the decision would no longer be his to make.
Then the cartel man spoke—low, sharp Spanish that dripped with threat. Rodriguez answered with something just as biting. Neither smiled.
“What did they say?” McGuire asked.
“Miguel is asking Rodriguez about the money and if he has anything else he didn’t mention. Rodriguez told him to go fuck himself,” Tessa supplied in a whisper.
“Here we go,” Patch said.
Miguel’s hand snapped up—A gunshot cracked like thunder in the cavernous warehouse. The first bullet took the money man square in the chest, sending him stumbling backward with the bag of cash. For a split second, nobody moved. Then the room erupted.
“Down!” Cross barked.
Tessa dropped, rolling behind a stack of reinforced pallets McGuire had rigged earlier with sandbags and shrink-wrapped boxes of printer paper. Splinters flew as rounds slammed into them, the thud of lead hitting dense material.
Cross squeezed the trigger twice, dropping the shooter who’d taken out the money man. Through the scope, he saw Rodriguez run to Drew and shove her toward another henchman, barking orders that were swallowed by the roar of return fire.
“Stone, three o’clock!” Patch yelled from atop the semi, his rifle spitting fire into the catwalk above, killing one gunman. Stone whirled and fatally shot a second guy entering through a window. The body fell to the warehouse floor with a sickening thud.
Cross shifted, scanning for a shot. The cartel men weren’t retreating—they were fanning out, trying to flank Tessa and Rodriguez along with Drew.
One was already moving toward the loading bay door.
If he got outside, they’d have more trouble than they could handle.
Cross squeezed the trigger, but the guy ducked behind the vehicles, and Cross missed.
“McGuire, door!”
“On it!” McGuire darted from cover, sliding into position behind a stack of steel sheets leaning against the wall. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted, the sharp whine making Cross grit his teeth.
Rodriguez ducked behind one of the SUVs, firing blindly over the door. “You’re dead, Tessa!” he screamed.
“Get in line!” she yelled back, then popped up to fire three quick shots before hunkering down again.
Cross’s scope tracked to Drew—her hands still bound, but she’d found the edge of the pallet stack and was crawling toward the narrow gap between it and the wall. Good girl.
More gunfire. Rodriguez’s men were shooting at the cartel guys, who were returning fire. Bodies were dropping. They all looked confused, as if they didn’t know who to shoot at.
“Patch, keep their heads down. I’m moving,” Cross said.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder, drew his sidearm, and slipped down the stairs to the warehouse floor. Gunfire cracked overhead, echoing in the steel and concrete. His boots pounded across the open space, the air thick with the acrid tang of gunpowder and dust.
A bullet whined past his ear, close enough that he felt the heat of it. He dove behind another fortified pallet stack, heart hammering, then peered around the edge.
Rodriguez was on the move. He dragged Drew out from behind the pallet, and using her as cover, he started toward a side exit. Miguel slid in behind him, and two cartel men ran interference, laying down suppressing fire.
Cross’s hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. “Not happening.” He broke cover, firing in controlled bursts. One cartel man went down, the other staggered, clutching his side.
Rodriguez turned toward Cross, their eyes locking for the briefest second. Cross saw the flare of fear there—then the man pulled open the door and pushed Drew through it.
“Go!” Patch’s voice was urgent in his ear. “I’ve got your six!”
Cross didn’t hesitate. He took off after Rodriguez and Miguel, the echoes of the gunfight chasing them both out into the night.
Rodriguez’s footsteps pounded ahead, the sound bouncing off the walls of the two warehouses they were running between. Cross pushed harder, lungs burning, every muscle screaming to close the gap. Rodriguez had ditched subtlety—he screamed at Drew to move faster.
“Stop running, asshole!” Cross’s voice was a growl.
Rodriguez glanced over his shoulder, the glint of his pistol in the dim light. “Come make me!”
The muzzle flash lit the alleyway for a heartbeat. Cross ducked, the bullet cracked into the wall, and spit concrete fragments into his face. He came up firing, forcing Rodriguez to veer left into an open warehouse maintenance bay.
Cross stopped and peeked around the end of the warehouse toward the bay. The night spun, and he knew he was reaching the limits of what his body could handle. He needed more recovery time after the infection. Too damn bad. He was going to get Drew to safety even if it killed him.
The sound of gunfire filled the night. He didn’t know if it was Rodriguez’s guys versus the cartel, or if it was the ATF against Rodriguez’s people, or some kind of fucked up combo. It didn’t matter. It meant help wasn’t coming anytime soon.
Cross moved to the edge of the open door and risked a look in. The room was tight, chock full of shelves holding tools, stacks of tires, and the hulking shadow of a rusting forklift. There was nowhere else to run.
Rodriguez and Miguel had circled wide, one on each side, with Drew between them, pistols up and steady.
Rodriguez’s mouth was twisted in a predatory grin. “You think you can take me? You’ve been hiding behind that pretty scope all night. Let’s see what you’ve got up close.”
Cross stepped forward, the weight of his own pistol balanced and ready. “You’re right. Let’s.”
It was a calculated risk. Miguel still wanted the shipment, and keeping at least one of them alive, either Drew or Cross, would be the key to getting that.
Chances were good he’d use Drew. Cross could live with whatever happened to him as long as Drew was okay.
And he trusted his teammates to make sure that happened, even if he couldn’t.
Rodriguez tossed his gun aside and yanked a wrench the size of Cross’s forearm off the workbench. His eyes gleamed with bloodlust. He swung in a wide arc, the whoosh of steel cutting the air. Cross ducked, driving a hard punch into Rodriguez’s ribs, feeling the satisfying give beneath the impact.
Rodriguez snarled, bringing the wrench down again, but Cross caught his wrist, the two of them crashing into the forklift. Metal rang against metal, echoing through the bay.
Cross kneed him in the gut, wrenching the weapon free and tossing it aside. Rodriguez responded with a headbutt that sent a white-hot burst of pain through Cross’s skull.
They grappled, boots skidding on the oil-slick floor. Cross slammed him into the side of the forklift, once, twice, the clang rattling the cab’s thick glass. Rodriguez clawed at Cross’s throat, spitting curses in rapid Spanish.
Adrenaline roared through Cross’s veins, hot and blinding.
He slammed Rodriguez back against the wall so hard the man’s head cracked against the concrete.
Cross’s forearm crushed across his throat, pinning him there, his own pulse pounding in his ears.
In one smooth, practiced motion, he yanked the knife from his belt, the steel flashing in the dim light.
Rodriguez froze. His chest heaved, eyes wide and shining with the sudden realization that this was the end.
Cross’s voice came low, almost calm—but it carried the weight of a death sentence. “You screwed with the wrong people. Now you’re out of time.”
The gunshot hit like a thunderclap. Rodriguez jerked once, then collapsed, his body sliding down the wall in a slow, boneless spill.
Cross spun, knife still in hand, ready for whatever came next—
Miguel stood in the doorway, his pistol leveled square at Cross’s chest. His expression was cold, his voice colder. “I don’t have time for your shit. We go back to the warehouse, I get my shipment, and then maybe I let you live. Or maybe I don’t.”
The fading echoes of the gunfight still rumbled through the walls, distant but close enough to keep every nerve raw. Cross’s chest rose and fell hard as he glanced past Miguel— and saw Drew.
She was pale, eyes wide, breathing in short, shallow bursts. He reached for her without thinking, pulling her into him. She collapsed against his chest, and he tore the tape from her mouth with a quick, rough pull. He was about to speak—something, anything to tell her she was safe—
Miguel stepped in close, jamming the gun into her ribs. “Move,” he snarled. The word was a promise, a threat, and a countdown all at once.