Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Riven sat in the skiff, tension straining her shoulders, the wound on her arm burning through to her chest. Patch had taken a moment to clean and bandage it once they’d ditched the truck, muttering something about a hero complex, then he’d ushered her onboard the skiff Remy had arranged.
They’d headed out, the eerie darkness a reminder of everything they had to lose.
How they only had one play left before they were all resigned to a life in the shadows.
The motor died with a cough as McGuire cut the fuel supply, nosed the boat against a dock. Patch jumped out, secured it to a cleat, then offered her his hand. She smiled, accepted, nearly tripping against him when he all but yanked her up.
He mumbled an apology, disappeared into the darkness, rifle at his shoulder, all that tightly wound energy back in place.
McGuire stepped out behind her, just as wired, only his energy wasn’t directed toward the underbrush or the red eyes blinking from beneath a cypress knoll.
It focused on her, as if he feared she’d bolt or collapse at a moment’s notice.
He shouldered the bags — motioned her on.
She smiled, then started along the weathered planks toward the main cabin.
The structure rose out of the inky water on creosote-soaked stilts — a black silhouette looming over the water like a rumor, looking more like part of the swamp than an actual building.
With a moss-covered tin roof and siding the same color as the surrounding tupelo and cypress trees, she struggled to see where they stopped and the actual cabin began.
A camo-net covered dish hung in the corner of the eaves, pointed at a clear swath of night sky. The cables snaked down the side of the hut, disappearing into what she guessed was a Faraday-lined box.
According to McGuire, this was the house at Bayou des Allemands, a place that existed only on Remy’s hand-drawn maps. One of his Brotherhood Protector safehouses, though she guessed someone had to be fairly desperate to delve this deep into the bayou.
Patch appeared on the porch beneath a single light casting a yellowed circle onto the worn planks. A raised boardwalk connected this cabin to a smaller one. What looked like a bunkhouse, or maybe a security hub.
He thumbed at it, grabbed two bags from McGuire and slung them over his shoulders.
“Cabin’s only got one bedroom. I assume you two can find a way to share.
I’ll take the bunkhouse. Cross and Stone will maintain overwatch at the tiki hut — try to get a sense if Herrera or Langley have any intentions of changing their scheduled drop. ”
Riven snagged his arm. “Are you sure? The cabin might be more comfortable.”
He snorted. “Three’s a crowd. Though, I will be over during the day, so keep any fun to the nighttime hours.”
McGuire shoved the guy toward the bunkhouse, flipping him off when he winked. “Ignore, Patch. He’s been alone in the bayou too long.”
“Thinking that applies to your entire crew.”
She laughed at the way McGuire rolled his eyes, walking past him when he opened the door and shepherded her inside.
A punch of slightly cooler air slid over her, strong notes of cedar and old books clinging to the building.
A couple ancient ceiling fans turned aimlessly overhead, losing their battle against the warm air.
The distant hum of a generator vibrated the floorboards, the lights occasionally flickering whenever the machine coughed.
The interior matched McGuire’s home in simplicity. An open section with a threadbare couch, small kitchen off to the left, and a stone fireplace where his wood stove had been. Two other doors stood at the far end. What she assumed was a bathroom and bedroom.
He followed her in and toed off his boots before placing the remaining bags in the bedroom, then stood at the doorway.
He stared for a few moments, gaze clearly assessing the entire room before he leaned against the frame.
“I’m not sure what clothes Remy had Beau grab, but I’m betting there’s something in there more comfortable than your dress.
Not that you don’t look stunning in it.”
She pushed off the sofa, stopped in front of him — close enough he had to draw himself up so she didn’t knock against his chest. “If I look half as good as you do in that monkey suit, I’ll take it as a compliment.
” She reached up, gave in to the urge to draw her finger along his arm next to the bandage. “Thanks, again. For guarding my ass.”
He swallowed, coughed a couple times, then smiled. “My pleasure. You want coffee or packing it in?”
“I could use a cup. I’ll just be a moment.”
He nodded, headed for the kitchen, the worn floorboards creaking with every step. She ducked into the room, changed into a pair of sweats that were obviously McGuire’s, then came back out.
Rich hickory had replaced the cedar scent, the incessant patter of rain on the tin roof overshadowing the constant hum.
She glanced out at the storm-bruised sky, watching the wind snap the Spanish moss like little whips.
She still wasn’t fond of the bayou, but for a moment, it felt safe.
All the chaos from the previous few days locked behind the heavy wooden door.
McGuire ambled over, mugs in one hand, a bowl of sliced fruit in the other. “I’ll make us an actual meal in the morning, but I thought this would take the edge off for tonight.”
She popped a piece of apple in her mouth as she sank onto the cushion, cradling the mug in her hands. “Thanks. This is great.”
He claimed the spot next to her, kicking his feet up on the rustic coffee table as he took a few sips, settling back on the couch. A comfortable silence stretched between them, a blend of generator hum and crickets providing a soothing background din.
She leaned back, let her head fall against his shoulder. Just like in the back of the truck. He chuckled, lifted his arm and tugged her closer, head on his chest, now, her side plastered against his. She closed her eyes, blinking back when he eased her mug out of her hands, placed it on the table.
He sighed when she looked up at him, those gorgeous slate eyes focused solely on her. “You’re exhausted. Only a matter of time before the coffee ends up in one of our laps.”
“Sorry, I…”
He shushed her, dragging her closer. “Close your eyes. I can move you to the bed, later, but for now…” He rested his cheek against her temple. “I’ve got your back.”
I’ve got your back…
Riven ran her fingers through her hair, as she leaned against the bathroom door, McGuire’s words ringing in her head. He’d said the same phrase every night since they’d arrived before snuggling with her on the couch. A routine that had gotten dangerously intimate.
Patch had finally headed for the bunkhouse, giving McGuire a roll of his eyes as he’d left.
Some inside joke she wasn’t privy to. They’d been discussing their strategy for the upcoming mission — what they needed to achieve to actually bring down Langley and the Herrera cartel, until the room had faded into silence.
She glanced at her reflection in the old mirror.
Some of the tightness around her eyes had lifted, the shadows beneath slightly lighter.
As if the past three days had eased some of the burden.
Given her a glimmer of hope. All she needed, now, was for McGuire to make a move, and she might have a chance at salvaging her sanity.
A familiar heat settled low in her belly, her insides jumping from the thought of spending another night in his arms. While she appreciated his sense of honor, and that maybe now wasn’t the time to start something, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want him to toss all that restraint and logic into the damn bayou and finally kiss her.
A strangled laugh bubbled free.
She wanted far more than just a kiss.
She wanted to trace every inch of his muscular body, taste the anticipation on his lips. Spend the entire night wrapped in his arms, nothing between them but the Louisiana heat. But more than anything, she just wanted to feel.
Everything.
With him.
Footsteps, then a soft knock on the door. “Riven? You okay?”
She straightened, prepared herself for the punch of lust when she stared into his eyes.
The hint of something deeper, something true she knew was reflected in hers.
What she suspected had started that night in Colombia and had been silently growing every night she’d watched him in the bar.
As if she’d known all along he was special.
That this was some sort of destiny she’d never allowed herself to believe in.
The hinges creaked as she opened the door, smiled. “Fine.”
His brow furrowed, adorable lines creasing the bridge of his nose. He did that whenever he tried to puzzle her out. Judge if she’d spoken the truth or just enough of it to skate by. She obviously passed inspection because he led her over to the couch.
She sucked in a deep breath, cursed the spicy essence of citrus and pine that clung to his skin and along hers, then started for the sofa. She got halfway there when he cleared his throat, stopped her with a gentle hook of her elbow.
His mouth pursed tight as she stared up at him, the energy in the room crackling around them. He tilted his head, exhaled, then drew himself up. “Do you ever regret it?”
She coughed. Had they had a conversation she’d forgotten about that they were just picking up on, now? “Do I ever regret what?”
The lines around his mouth deepened. “Making that call.” He waved his hand.
“I know you said not helping us wasn’t an option, but…
” He blew out another breath. “If you hadn’t, you might have toppled the Herrera cartel by now.
Gotten your choice of any DEA office.” He stepped closer.
“Been able to do more than hide these past five months.”
She let the words sink in, the honesty in his voice unmistakable. “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Or maybe, I’d be dead.”