Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
McGuire sat at the tiller, engine throttled low, nothing more than a hushed growl as the blades slowly propelled them forward, their wake gently rocking the grass along the bank.
Heat lightning flared on the horizon, each brief flash reflected off the diesel sheen floating on the black, reed-choked water.
Flickers of red crested the surface, following their path before slinking away, the odd tail splash breaking up the frog chorus.
His knuckles burned as he tightened his grip, his skin bruised and raw from that damn bar fight.
He inhaled, cursed, the right half of his ribs burning red-hot, as if someone had shoved a fire poker between them.
It’d been a hot minute since he’d taken a beating, though, considering the circumstances, a few bruises seemed like a victory.
He glanced at Patch. Mouth pinched tight, jaw clenched, he looked as if he might jump overboard and wrestle a gator just to expend the tension straining his muscles. And all because of the woman sitting between them.
Dark hair gleaming in the silvery light, she looked more like an angel than the fiery spitfire she’d unleashed in the bar.
Even now, muscles primed, gaze on a loop around the shoreline, not an ounce of panic bleeding through the mask she’d donned as soon as he’d shoved off, she still seemed small. Almost vulnerable.
He chuckled under his breath. She’d tossed a damn paring knife across the bar — hit that armed asshole square in the shoulder. He doubted she knew the meaning of the word.
A low-hanging tupelo branch nudged the side, skipped his off-grid phone across the bottom of the skiff where he’d dropped it alongside Patch’s and Riven’s.
A silent, damning accusation glaring up him.
He reran the play — how his phone had chirped, then Patch’s, each displaying the same unknown caller ID.
Riven had stared at him as if he’d personally stolen whatever hope she’d clung to.
As if she’d just now realized the bogey man was real.
Fucking Savvy.
Those two words echoed in his head. Why his sister had linked his one-and-only lifeline to Riven mystified him. Who was she? And why did Savvy think Riven was important enough to risk burning their cover to the ground?
A hum.
Subtle, edging closing.
McGuire killed the engine, picked the push-pole off the seats — dipped it into the sludge.
He angled the skiff toward a large cypress tree, scooting beneath a curtain of moss, the ends rustling across the metal frame as they glided to a halt.
The three of them instinctively dropped low as a distant beam lanced the night, a flutter of leathery wings squeaking overhead.
Riven slipped her hand into her bag, removed what looked like a standard issue Glock.
She chambered a round, held it close, face a blank slate.
He glanced at Patch, but his buddy merely shrugged, hugging the ribs of the skiff as the second Jon boat ghosted into sight.
The light swept toward them, skipped their alcove by maybe a foot, a hint of the hull showing in the weak glow.
One of the men shouted a command in broken Spanish, the engines shutting down a second later.
The guy walked along the side of the boat, fired off two speculative rounds into the reeds, tiny waves rippling out from the impact.
A couple frogs splashed off a nearby log, the clap of a gator tail echoing in the dark.
The guy frowned, waved at his buddy behind the wheel. A few coughs, then the engine growled to life, the boat lurching forward as they slinked down the bayou, beam still skimming across the water.
McGuire waited until the hum faded into cicadas and chirping crickets before starting the engine, angling them parallel to the shore.
He hugged the hyacinth mats clogging the riverbed, the dense foliage hiding any wake as he headed for a distant trestle.
They slid under it, barnacles scraping the gunwale, a few more bats taking flight.
A heron squawked out of the reeds as they slid out the other side, wings beating the air around their heads as it took off, its dark silhouette backlit by the crescent moon.
Riven jumped, hand hitting her chest, breath puffing out in ragged pants. She let her head tip back, eyes closed as she seemed to gather her composure.
McGuire pressed his palm against her thigh, nodding when she stared back at him. “You’re good. Just breathe.”
She snorted, looked as if she wanted to clock him over the head but settled, breath evening out.
He cut to the shadowed side of the shoreline, took a route that barely allowed the skiff to float through without scraping each side.
He lifted the prop like she’d done on the fly, poled them through a section thick with lilies and reeds, then popped it back down, continuing forward on idle.
They drifted for a full minute in dead silence, the engine from the other boat still humming somewhere downwind. Another couple shots rang out, then nothing.
Patch shook his head, pointing at the gators slithering into the water. “On the list of places I imagined dying, this doesn’t even make the top ten.”
Riven laughed, a soft, lilting sound that fluttered something in McGuire’s chest.
He tsked at Patch. “I thought you loved the bayou?”
“Not tonight.”
McGuire chuckled, nosed the skiff into a reed wall that gave way to a hidden slip. His stilt house stood like a sentry above the black water, the tin roof peeking through the wide-spread branches of a black willow tree.
Patch grabbed the rope slung waist high — pulled them the rest of the way in, nothing but smooth water gliding out behind them.
McGuire gathered the phones as they slipped up next to the dock.
The wood creaked beneath their boots as they stepped onto the old platform, and McGuire tied the boat to a set of cleats gleaming in the moonlight.
Patch shouldered his rifle, motioned them to wait as he swept across the dock, vanished up the steps like one of the ghosts they’d all become. Leaves rustled off to their right before he doubled back, waved them ahead.
McGuire took point, Sig at his shoulder, boots barely making a sound, as he picked his way through a thicket of dense Musa basjoo leaves, stopping at the edge of a grassy clearing.
A thin fishing line strung with brass jingle bells crossed the length of the yard, the odd chime sounding in the breeze.
He slid two fingers around the nylon, lifted it just enough Riven and Patch could dart underneath, then eased it back down.
They continued to the bottom of the stairs, Patch once again moving ahead, jogging up the steps, then clearing each side of the porch before heading for the door.
McGuire trailed his fingers across the sill, checked the matchstick he’d wedged there this morning hadn’t shifted before running the jam — clocking the piece of string still sticking out of the lock.
He smiled. “Clear.”
He unlocked the door, then swept inside, he and Patch moving through the two-bedroom shack with practiced grace. They checked the windows and doors, scouring every corner before standing down, waving Riven inside.
She stepped across the threshold, gaze drinking it all in — the thread-bare furniture scattered around the room and the pot-bellied stove shoved into one corner.
He had a two-way radio collecting dust on a shelf, and a massive fan trying to push the thick air around the space.
She didn’t speak, just stood there, eyeing them as if she wasn’t sure if she’d walked into another ambush or some form of sanctuary.
McGuire lowered his weapon. “Can’t be too careful.”
Riven snorted. “Wouldn’t expect anything less after the way you handled those men.”
“Let’s get cleaned up — have Patch treat those cuts — then, we’ll talk.”
She looked at Patch, sized him up, then sighed and took a seat at the kitchen island.
Patch switched into medic mode, heaving out McGuire’s substantial first aid kit from the bathroom.
He ran some water, gathered a couple towels, then went to work, cleaning scrapes and lacerations, taping and bandaging anything that needed attention.
It was well past one by the time he finished, zipping the kit up with a resounding hiss. McGuire double-checked the security system as the house settled around them, creaking in the wind like an old ship.
Riven rose from the stool, eyes wary, all that coiled energy ready to strike.
He motioned to the table, then headed for the cupboard.
Grabbing a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, he spread them out across the surface.
Riven slipped onto a seat, clenched the glass as if she expected to use it as a weapon, then chugged the generous pour in one gulp.
He offered her another, but she shook her head, a hint of color creeping across her cheeks. He placed the bottle on the table, arched a brow at her. “You’re not gonna throw this one, too, are you?”
Her smile dimmed the room, and he checked the light — ensured he’d actually flipped it on. “Not unless it’s necessary.”
“Like that knife.” He whistled. “Hell of a throw. They teach you that at the Farm?”
She crossed her arms, shook her head. “I’m not CIA.”
“But you’re something. And it’s about time my sister came clean.”
Riven inhaled, grabbed his wrist as he palmed his cell. “Savvy’s your sister?”
“Trust me. I question the validity of that every damn day.” He hit her number, cleared his throat when she answered on the second ring. “Savvy.”
Savvy mumbled something about him never calling at a reasonable time before the background noise changed, silenced. “What the hell, McGuire? You know the rules.”
“Right. Life or death only, except where it seems it’s not just my life.”
He could practically hear her scowling as her bed creaked in the distance.