Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
McGuire hit the landing, ears ringing, gaze searching the red-lit underbelly.
Thick smoke filled the engine room, the flare one of Martillo’s men had fired still burning red against a clash of metal.
Gunfire popped behind him, Patch still laying down cover fire, keeping what seemed like an endless number of men at bay.
Riven had disappeared into the lower level several minutes ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. Hours wondering if he’d allowed her to walk into an ambush.
If he’d lost any chance at seeing if they might have something unique.
The alarm blared topside as he swept the grated floors, stomach clenching tight as he caught their silhouettes — Riven on the ground, weapon in her hand, the barrel dipping left and right, as if she couldn’t quite hold it still.
Martillo loomed over her, hands bloodied, lethal intent straining his muscles.
He took a staggering step — cut off any confident shot that didn’t put Riven at risk of a ricochet or damage from a through and through — hands raised, lips pulled back.
McGuire didn’t hesitate.
He leveled his Sig, pulled the trigger — hit the pipe above Martillo’s head. Steam whistled out, burned a line down the bastard’s face and neck. He screamed, darted off down the adjoining corridor, hands covering his head.
“Riven — stairs!”
She jerked her head toward his voice, pushed to her feet and stumbled across the room, bouncing off a few of the pipes before grabbing the rail. She blinked, took the hand he offered and tripped up the steps.
Bruises had already bloomed on her right cheek, lines of road-rash peppered her exposed skin. More marks peeked out from beneath her shirt, but no obvious wounds like the ones he’d been imagining.
He made a mental note to treat them all later, then tugged her close. “You’re insane. You should have run when that asshole showed up.”
“Would you?”
He snorted, dropped a kiss on her forehead before he could overthink it, then darted to the doorway. Patch stood just inside, eyeing both ends of the hallway as they moved in behind him.
He looked at Riven, frowned, then motioned left. “We’ve got a lull. We should book it to the wheelhouse while they’re regrouping.”
McGuire nodded. “You take point, buddy. I’ll have our six. And Riven…” He moved in closer. “If you think you’re gonna puke or pass out because of what went on down there, you fucking say something. No hero shit, remember?”
She tiptoed up, looked as if she might kiss him before shaking her head. “Wish you’d reminded me of that before I picked a fight with Martillo.”
McGuire bit back a growl, checked the hallway again before following her and Patch down the corridor. The trawler listed hard with each punishing swell, dipping one way, then swinging the other.
Riven kept one palm on the wall, maintaining Patch’s quick pace as they retraced their steps — took a different door farther forward. What McGuire prayed led to the wheelhouse. Voices shouted around them, hollow taps echoing in every direction.
A hiss of static, then Cross on comms. “I’ve got men mobilizing on the stern. Looks like they’re readying another one of those Jon boats. You guys need to hit the water before it does. We’re on the move in ninety. Don’t make us look bad by not being there.”
They reached the wheelhouse in perfect formation, Patch sweeping in like a ghost. He downed the guy at the helm before they’d taken more than a step inside, leaving McGuire to eliminate the two assholes standing guard, while Patch fired a few rounds into the console.
Sparks spit at the air, tendrils of smoke twirling up from the surface as the gauges fell flat.
Patch checked the feed, just to be sure, then shouldered the exterior exit, diving back amidst a flurry of bullets. A few rounds pinged off the frame, hit the other side of the wall.
Footsteps tapped along the hallway, men racing toward the wheelhouse as another group flanked outside, their silhouettes passing the windows.
Patch and McGuire each grabbed a flashbang, pulled the pins, then tossed them at the advancing men.
The canisters bounced once before erupting into a blaze of white light and noise.
The double impact rattled McGuire’s head until he swore he heard music before he staggered to his feet, fired off some cover rounds, then hauled Riven up and against his chest. She blinked, looked as if she might puke, her skin ashen, eyes wide.
Patch tumbled against the exit, waved them through, tossing another smoke grenade for good measure.
Anyone still standing dove for cover, a thick blue plume snaking out a moment later.
The wind sheared it sideways, blowing some back into the cabin as McGuire wrapped his arm around Riven, carried her to the side of the trawler.
Angry waves kissed the boat, spraying up and over the side as the vessel bobbed across the surface, all but dead in the water. Rain slicked the metal railing, knifed into the swells as the waves rocked the boat.
He didn’t wait to see if she could jump on her own, just palmed the side, vaulted over with her in his arms. She inhaled, everything pausing for a moment as they caught the trough, fell below the next wave before plunging beneath the surface.
The cold, black water hit him like a fist, closing in around him as he gave Riven a shove — got her heading for the surface. He swam up beside her, held her elbow as they crested the water. The next wave crashed over them, pulled them down for a moment before spitting them back up.
Riven shook her head, treading water as Patch powered through the current, closed ranks around her.
McGuire glanced back at the trawler. Listing back and forth, the boat looked like a black stain against the harbor lights.
The emergency generator still hummed in the background, the odd red light flickering to life.
El Martillo stood on the deck, silhouette backlit by the distant pier. A few muzzle flashes lit the darkness before he waved to his men, disappeared toward the stern.
Patch groaned. “I don’t like the look of that. Didn’t Cross say something about a Jon boat?”
McGuire nodded, fighting the tug of the water. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance your flashbang damaged…”
He trailed off as a motor coughed in the distance, a light cutting through the inky black behind the trawler. McGuire scanned the shoreline, gauging if they could reach the reeds before the boat closed in on them when Stone’s voice carried over the water.
“On your six.”
McGuire turned, exhaled as Stone maneuvered a skiff in beside them, the boat nearly invisible amidst the waves.
McGuire helped Riven up first, accepting Stone’s hand as Cross pulled Patch over the side.
The boat teetered from the added weight, sinking a bit lower in the water before Stone had the boat turned around, pushed it into a short plane before it leveled out.
Cross tapped on his jammer. “Jammer’s still active, but I’m not getting any incoming signals. Looks like that Jon boat’s comms unit is fried.”
McGuire nodded. “One small mercy. Now, we just need to worry if the bastard can get a cell signal — call in the attack once we’re out of range.”
Riven accepted the blanket Stone handed her, wet hair whipping in the wind. “That might be hard seeing as I cracked his phone, kicked it behind some pipes.”
McGuire smiled. “Anything else we should know about your fight?”
“Other than the bastard hits hard?” She sighed. “He’s not going to give up lightly. This is about more than catching an enemy. His pride’s on the line. If he screws this up, he’s as good as dead. Herrera doesn’t tolerate failure.”
“Sounds like you know that from experience.”
She shuddered, but he didn’t know if it was from the cold or his statement. “It was a long year.”
McGuire reached out, held her hand, as he tapped Stone. “Head for shore…”
His voice trailed into a curse as Martillo’s Jon boat rounded the Santa Rina, wake breaking behind it, a spotlight bouncing along the waves. It skipped over the skiff, panned off, then circled back, catching glimpses of the boat as Stone rode the swells toward an adjoining river head.
“On second thought, take us into the river. We’ll try to lose the asshole.”
Stone hit the throttle. The skiff shot up, hovered with the bow high before it evened out, slicing through the incoming breakers.
Stone banked toward a slash of black amidst the waves, lush greenery poking through the shallows on both sides.
They crested the mouth of the river, then tore down the main passageway, the hull slapping the waves, engine whining.
Lightning forked along the horizon, the heavy roll of thunder breaking across the bayou as they banked down the channel, that Jon boat slowly catching up.
A couple of Martillo’s men opened fire, peppered the water with streaks of silver.
Cross wove the skiff toward the shore, reeds and grass bending against the weight of the hull.
The rain picked up, sheeting out of the sky, adding a physical weight to the air. Another bolt ripped overhead, the resulting thunder shaking through the hull.
Stone glanced back, shook his head. “We’ll never outrun them in this. Hold on.”
He banked over, took a narrow branching path that looked more like wet grass than water. The skiff buffeted across the marshy stretch, propellor buzzing, that spotlight behind them growing bigger.
Martillo stayed on a parallel course, cutting hard to starboard when he nearly beached the vessel on a hidden sandbar. The constant hum of his engine dimmed, that light winking out for a moment before it snapped back as Stone rejoined the wider channel.
McGuire shifted over, hugged the gunwale as he grabbed Cross’ rifle off the seat, notched it against his shoulder. He steadied his breathing, riding through a series of bucking waves before caressing the trigger, gently squeezing.
The recoil slapped him back as his shot hit home, cracked the spotlight, cutting off Martillo’s advantage. McGuire cycled another round, metered his breathing, then fired again as the fork reflected off the water.
This one hit dead center of the console — sent sparks shooting into the air. The engine chugged, coughed, but kept growling, a hint of smoke rising from the cowling. The noises dimmed a bit, but the boat kept closing in on them.
Riven snugged in beside him, her hand warm on this thigh. “I don’t think not having a light’s slowing him down.”
McGuire nodded, chambering another bullet, when Cross cursed.
He waved at something in front of them, looking at the water as if he expected it to surge up and drag him down. “Hold on, things are about to get tight.”
Stone didn’t slow, shooting into the ridiculously narrow channel a second later.
Cypress roots clawed at the water like jagged teeth, red eyes bobbing along the surface only a foot from the boat.
Spanish moss dragged across their backs as Stone blew through the twisting path, guiding the boat by sheer power of will.
McGuire grunted. “Patch, brother, hit him with everything you’re got. You don’t need to land any, just make the fucker flinch.”
Patch moved closer to the stern, Riven slipping out, hugging the other side. They drew their weapons, alternated rounds. The boat didn’t veer off, but they gained a bit of distance, each second a small victory.
McGuire yelled to Stone when the next flash highlighted a low-hanging cypress branch. “Everyone get low. Stone, scoot under the branch.”
Stone angled it impossibly closer, chipping off some of the bark as the skimmed beneath the branch, McGuire grabbing ahold long enough to bend it back, load a bit of momentum.
He let go a moment before it cracked, the green branch snapping back like a pendulum behind them.
A satisfying crack filled the air, angry shouts rising a moment later.
McGuire smiled as the lightning illuminated the scene a heartbeat later — half the console pushed in, the windshield nothing but an afterthought.
Martillo shouted at his men, got that damn boat moving, again.
Slower, with it sitting low on the port side, but it kept coming.
Patch shook his head. “I gotta give this Hammer asshole some credit. He’s relentless.”
McGuire raked his hand through his wet hair. “Maybe we need to play to his pride. Stone, as soon as it’s wide enough, spin this baby. Let’s see who flinches first.”
Stone arched a brow but nodded, keeping up the speed until the channel widened, the tree-choked shore giving way to more reeds and ferns. He held firm, waited until he’d traveled a few boat lengths, then dipped the skiff hard to starboard.
It whipped around, anything not tied down tumbling against the ribs as water shot out the opposite side. He brought the boat around, then hit the throttle, jumping the skiff ahead as the propellers dug into the water.
Martillo’s boat loomed large in front of them, the men all shouting at once before Martillo jerked the wheel, banking them hard to starboard.
That was all the opening McGuire needed.
He exhaled, fired, hit the steering linkage at the back of the outboard motor.
The engine sputtered, smoke pouring off the cowling, as it locked the controls into a hard turn.
The vessel spun, clocking several tight rings before plowing onto the muddy bank with a gut-wrenching crunch of fiberglass.
Some of the men flew over the side, landed in the marsh with a curse, the engine’s whine violently cutting off. Stone kept the throttle down, skillfully guided them back to the main channel.
Patch shouldered in beside McGuire. “Nice shooting, buddy. Glad you haven’t lost all your skills.”
McGuire flipped him off. “Name one?”
Patch thumbed at Riven. “Flirting.”
“You’re an ass.”
“And yet, bang fucking on.”
McGuire shoved Patch, smiled at Riven. “Please tell me you’ve got everything you need to source out this shadow ledger.”
She opened her burner phone, scrolled through a few screens, eyes narrowed, lips moving without saying anything. She tilted her head, smiled. “How do you guys feel about doing a bit of gambling in New Orleans?”
Patch frowned. “Gambling?”
“At the Crescent Belle Casino.” She held up her phone, showed them the translated passphrase. “Who knows, we might just hit the jackpot.”