Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Riven froze, gaze locked on the man standing halfway inside the bar, gun trained on her, cartel ink peeking out of the Walmart shirt he’d likely purchased on the trip over. His buddies fanned out behind him, each covering a side of the bar.
She shifted slightly, palmed the knife she’d been using to slice lemons.
Not quite the KA-BAR she’d carried in the field, but in a pinch, it’d work.
She judged the distance, waited for him to do one last glance toward his men, open up that small window of opportunity for her to strike, when McGuire and his buddy Patch moved over — blocked her view.
No fear. No uncertainty.
Just tightly coiled tension ready to strike.
Her gut clenched. Either they were crazy, or they were highly trained.
She’d bet on the latter.
McGuire tilted his head, his massive physique owning the space. His right hand lingered next to his hip, but if he was armed, she couldn’t tell. “You boys look like you’re a long way from home. Thinking you should turn around before this gets ugly.”
The guy snarled, waved his Sig at McGuire’s face. “Don’t be a hero, asshole. We’re not here for you.” He looked around McGuire, caught her gaze. “Herrera’s got a message for you, puta.”
The man’s name hung in the air, buzzed around her like the damn mosquitos. No wondering if she’d misread the men. If she’d been overreacting to a simple robbery attempt. They’d come for her.
Either she exhaled a bit too loudly, or McGuire felt her twist — a ripple of air as she opened up a better sightline because he moved. Lunged right, drew the asshole’s gaze. The guy shifted, finger already caressing the trigger, McGuire nothing more than a blur amidst the thick air.
Riven flicked her wrist, tossed the knife across the bar, blade glinting off the string of lights swaying in the breeze. It hit the third guy charging across the room in his upper shoulder — sent his feet flying forward as he crashed onto one of the tables, broke through it on his way to the floor.
That scattered the remaining men. Had Patch diving left, sliding across the floor before popping up eye level with the second guy. No fancy moves, just two solid strikes to his throat followed by an elbow to his face and a boot to finish the job.
Riven palmed the counter, vaulted overtop, whiskey bottle in her other hand as McGuire twisted out of the path of the first shot like some jacked-up version of the Matrix playing out in real time.
He caught the slide on the guy’s Sig, hammered it back, discharging the chambered round before hitting the mag release.
The cartridge clattered to the ground, skidding across the floor with the help of McGuire’s boot as he slammed the guy’s hand on the table, loosened his grip on the gun. McGuire took a few hits — ribs, kidney — before he headbutted the creep, had the guy reeling backwards.
The last guy shouted, eyes wide, pulse fluttering wildly at the base of his neck.
He fired, not really aiming at anything, just a spray of bullets the width of the bar.
Riven hit the ground, covered her head until the gun just clicked, a tendril of smoke rising off the barrel.
She rolled to her feet, tossed the bottle at the guy’s head.
Hit his shoulder, instead, but it knocked him back — gave them a hint of an opening.
The boys obviously saw it too, because McGuire had his arm around her ribcage, heaving her backwards as Patch fired off a few rounds from his own weapon — the one she hadn’t even noticed.
Glass shattered, one of the beer taps shooting out white foam, as they scrambled through a swinging door, hit the kitchen in a full retreat.
She gasped in a breath when McGuire released his hold, the ghosted feel of his arm still compressing her chest. She stopped next to the rear door, kicked out a false panel beneath the window and grabbed the go-bag she’d stored there months ago.
Patch moved in beside her, weapon trained on the swinging door. “We gotta move, Riven.”
She swung the straps over her shoulders when the rear door burst open, another asshole in matching clothing barreling through.
Twin reports boomed through the room, the sheer force knocking her back. She turned, stared as McGuire stepped forward, gun still aimed at the exit, twin cartridges lying on the floor behind him. He didn’t talk, didn’t rush, just placed his hand on the small of her back, ushered her out.
The hot, damp air swallowed the sound of their boots on the old wooden planks as they raced down the dock — jumped in an old rusty skiff tethered near the end.
Patch settled at the stern, yanked on the frayed line coiled around the starter.
The motor coughed, choked out a few rounds of noxious fumes before it kicked over, started churning up the water.
McGuire grabbed her head, shoved it beneath the edge a second before rounds pinged off the metal siding, a couple punching through dangerously close to her shoulder. He returned fire, calm, calculated, each shot hitting its target.
The men retreated as a huge SUV roared into the parking lot, headlights tunneling through the dark, lighting them up like a beacon. More men poured out, comms unit coiled down the back of their necks, body armor covering black camo.
Patch revved the motor, swung the boat to the left, then took off. The bow tipped up, water splashing over the sides as he skipped along the surface, the skiff finally leveling out.
He veered down a small side route, twin Jon boats cutting in behind them from the reeds. Spotlights painting them in yellow as rounds lit up the water in silver puffs.
Riven pointed to another opening on their right. “Go right, then take a sharp left at that large oak. There’s a narrow cut through the marsh that should buy us some time.”
Patch frowned. “You sure? I’ve never noticed it before.”
She slipped in beside him, placed her hand on the tiller. “I’ll steer — you shoot.”
He glanced at McGuire, then shifted, took McGuire’s spot on the bow as McGuire planted his ass next to her, focused on the men behind them.
She glanced over her shoulder, gauging the distance, when his hand landed in her hair, twisted her head back to the river.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her neck. “Eyes forward. I’ve got our six.”
She swallowed, choked, a wave of heat burning across her skin.
She rolled her shoulders, tried to shake off the feel of his fingers in her hair as she veered right, then banked the boat hard to the left.
The hull rocked, grass and reeds flattening in front as she plowed through the marsh, fireflies blinking around them.
She hit an old dock post, lifted the blades out of the water as they scraped over a buried sandbar, rocks and stumps scratching the bottom of the skiff.
Patch cursed, muttering something about it being too shallow when they cleared the grass, a swath of black water stretching out in front.
She tipped the propellor back beneath the surface, gave the motor more gas, those boats closing in behind them as the first one hit the bar, stopped dead. The men lurched forward, toppled into the water with splashes and curses, the front end already dipping under the surface.
The second veered off, paralleled them on the main line, the men standing tall in the hopes of getting a better sightline. McGuire slipped to her other side, his body pressed against hers as he leveled his Sig, pulled the trigger.
The front gunner jerked, tumbled onto his ass a second later. The other guy took a couple shots, missed wide before McGuire fired, again. Dropped him over the side. The boat angled off, the silhouette fading into the night.
She stared up at him. She’d never seen someone hit targets with sniper accuracy while skipping over the water using only a Sig.
He glanced back at her, brow furrowing as he swept his gaze down, then up. “You hit?”
She blinked, snapped back. “No. But I don’t think they’re gone for good.”
She slowed, took the next curving branch that cut behind an old bait shop and a rusted shrimp boat.
Bald cypress trees draped in Spanish moss lined the shoreline, the delicate fingers making small ripples in the water.
Lily pads and duckweed floated across the surface, interrupting the wavering reflection of the lush greenery in the rising moonlight.
An owl called somewhere offshore, the mournful sound lingering in the hot breeze.
Off to the right, a gator slid into the water with a lazy ripple, its red eyes blinking along the surface as they slipped past. Riven angled the skiff toward a low-lying bridge, killed the engine, then drifted along, the current gradually slowing them down.
She pointed to the overhanging beam. “Patch. Grab the crossbeam.”
Patch rose, braced his palms on the slick creosote, and caught their momentum like a gymnast, his boots hissing along the deck as the skiff came to a silent, perfect halt.
An old jalopy rattled across the wooden bridge a moment later, raining dust and old leaves down over them.
Up river, the other Jon boat revved its engines, men shouting at shadows as they searched the shoreline, the noise finally fading into the distance.
The frog song and cicadas returned, the buzz of insects humming along the riverbank.
They waited another twenty minutes before slipping out, skipping their way back along the waterway. McGuire directed her down another route, holding his hand up once they’d reached a secluded section she hadn’t ventured on before.
He reached over, killed the motor. Nothing but the silvery light of the moon brightening his face.