Chapter 12 #2
Her heart hammered against her ribs, every nerve strung tight, as they waited in the tight space, her pulse thrumming to the same rhythm as water dripping from somewhere farther up in the drain.
McGuire held steady for a few moments, focus still locked on where Martillo had disappeared before swinging his rifle around to his back.
He motioned for her to cover him as he slid his fingers into the slats, slowly inched the grate up and over.
Riven held her breath, ready to lay down suppression fire if their position was compromised, as McGuire eased the lid to the floor.
He paused, scanned the warehouse, then slipped out, offering his hand once he’d cleared the drain. She accepted, moving in beside him as he repositioned the grate.
Tension bunched her shoulders, the thick, Louisiana air folding in around them as they darted from one crate to the next, finally scooting behind the compressor, again, the sudden whine of one of its belts making everything inside her jump.
She held in the squeal, sticking close to McGuire when Stone came over the comms.
“Black SUV just pulled up. Looks like our buddy, Keane’s, here.”
McGuire’s shoulders rose ever so slightly, but he didn’t budge, just kept them tucked behind that machine, their shadows blending in with the compressor’s. The ambient noise dimmed for a second, then more footsteps. Louder. Heavier. The kind that spoke of arrogance and authority.
McGuire glanced at her, motioned to the other side. Riven nodded and pressed her back against the metal before leaning out — taking stock.
Bram Keane decked out in black, pistol silhouetted in a thigh holster, ballistic vest noticeably absent of any equipment.
As if his sheer presence could stop an armed assault.
He met Martillo outside the office doors, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand as he waved at the crates.
They exchanged what looked like heated words, Martillo storming toward the main doors a minute later, back rigid, his gait reflecting his mood.
Keane walked over to the crates, checked what must have been a manifest on his phone against the cargo before removing an RF receiver from his pocket — wedging it under the bottom edge, before routing a pigtail wire to a junction box on the container.
He tapped his screen, a reflected green LED pulsing to life on the concrete floor.
He repeated the process with two other pallets, then headed for a group of similarly dressed men hovering around the entrance as a forklift zoomed by, started moving the final series of crates.
Riven eased back, bent her head close to McGuire’s. “Keane just armed a RF receiver with a deadman switch to three crates. If a raid hits, or if Keane feels spooked, he can blow this whole stack from a distance. It’ll level a city block. We can’t bring anyone in until we kill the RF chain.”
McGuire swore under his breath, mouth pinched tight. “This changes everything. We need to follow the shipment — get on whatever boat they’re using for transport. Keep the threat as far from shore as possible. We’ll call Savvy once we’re sure it’s clear.”
“I’ve got a tracker, but…”
But she should have placed it on one of the crates when she’d been marking them as a failsafe. Now…
She’d have to find a way that didn’t involve her getting them both caught.
He grunted, the damn forklift rolling toward the door as another moved in behind it — snagged the next container, the steady stream eating up any chance at placing it. “Patch? Buddy, we need a distraction. Make it loud and proud, brother.”
A click, then silence, just the engines growling beside them, the compressor humming along.
Riven readied the small unit, still hunched behind the machine when an alarm wailed overhead, red light strobing through the warehouse.
Shouts rose above the din, a mix of Spanish and English yelling out orders.
The forklifts stopped, cargo abandoned mid-haul as they raced for the entrance.
Riven didn’t wait for McGuire to tell her to go, just popped out, sprinted toward the containers. She slid in behind one when a group of PMC assholes barreled into the warehouse, clearing the cargo before turning, standing guard.
She snapped the tracker into place, took a breath, then ran back, body hunched, boots barely making a sound. McGuire pulled her in behind the unit, looking as if he’d aged five years before peering out the other side.
A wave and a point, and they booked it toward the wall, diving into the shadows before the men turned, caught them mid-stride. McGuire rolled to his feet, covered their retreat, that alarm still shrieking. Something hissing a couple bays over.
They retraced their steps, reached the halfway point, when that guard ghosted out of the darkness, flashlight searching the shadows, rifle at his waist. He panned left, caught Riven in the beam as she tried to change direction mid-stride.
The man’s eyes widened, mouth gaping open before he reacted — lifted his weapon.
McGuire moved. Lunged forward like he had at the bar, a blur of black against the gray.
Two steps, and he had the rifle knocked sideways, muzzle pointing at the wall.
Another two, and he’d fully engaged. Had the guy staggering back, strikes to his throat and chest tumbling him backwards.
The guard tried to counter, land a hook to McGuire’s ribs, only to crumple mid-swing, eyes rolled back, every breath a gurgled wheeze.
Riven darted in beside McGuire, wondering how she managed to avoid the cartel for two weeks without a partner, when he grabbed her hand — took off. They hit the plastic strips running full out, tearing several as they raced through, made a beeline for the door.
Patch met them at the exit, clothes soaked, some kind of white foam stuck to his boots. He didn’t talk, just showed the countdown on one hand, then bolted for the dumpster. They hit it still running flat out, detoured toward their SUV, then hopped inside.
Stone and Cross materialized out of the eerie fog a minute later, jumped in their ride. They pulled in behind Patch as he turned onto an alley that paralleled the pier, stopping a block over to double check the signal.
Riven launched her tracker app, handing her phone to McGuire. “Signal’s strong. Looks like they’re waiting for something.”
“Or maybe, someone.” Patch glanced at her. “I heard one of Keane’s men say Langley’s definitely on his way. Chopper. They’re set to meet after they shove off.”
Riven bit back a curse. “Which means, we need to get onboard and deactivate the daisy chain before Langley arrives with half of Senator Morrison’s security force. If that happens…”
McGuire nodded. “We’re screwed. So, let’s stop this before that bastard gets here.”