Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The rain had eased slightly when the convoy finally started moving, the dot on the screen slowly jerking ahead. Fog curled over the pavement, bouncing their headlights back at them as they moved along the network of backroads, keeping that dot a good five hundred meters in front of them.
McGuire sat in the passenger seat, alternating his gaze between the gray scenery and Riven.
Sitting in the middle of the backseat, the dash lights glowing softly on her skin, she looked more like an angel than the whirlwind who’d just cost him ten years of his life.
When she’d darted out to deploy the tracker as that PMC crew had barreled in…
He’d watched the rest of his life play out before him. Cold. Dull. And all because he’d imagined she hadn’t been a part of it.
She’d impressed him. Again. Proof he needed to get his head out of his ass — be the man she needed him to be. Not the one he suspected had fallen hopelessly in love with her.
She must have felt him staring because she glanced over at him, smiled. His heart kicked. Hard. Stole his breath. And he knew, if they made it out in one piece, he’d stop treading water — start living.
Patch slowed the vehicle as they crested a levee, pulled over to the side of the road, the cartel’s pier spread out before them. Muted lights smeared the top of the rippling black water, the harbor’s glow casting the entire area into an eerie yellow mass.
McGuire raised his scope as he scanned the dock.
A wide, rusty barge rode low in the river, the blunt-ended stern nosed into the quay, as a tug idled alongside.
Out in the channel, a matte-black fast boat swept the river like a shark, the wake peeling out behind it in a ribbon of white.
A large crane moved the pallets onto the deck, a familiar silhouette standing near the center.
El Martillo.
Riven sighed behind McGuire, a similar scope pressed to her eye. “I assume that growl means you’ve spotted Martillo. I swear that guy’s got more lives than a cat.”
McGuire glanced back at her. “I didn’t growl.”
She laughed. “You keep on telling yourself that.” She adjusted the scope, huffed. “Tug’s already tethered. They’re launching as soon as that last crate’s been secured.”
She panned right, cursed. “Guess it was too much to think Keane would hand this whole thing off. Quite the rig he’s got for patrolling. That boat’ll outrun most law enforcement vessels.”
McGuire shifted his gaze, landed on Keane standing off to the side, phone glowing from his front shirt pocket, the fast boat curving in close to the pier for a moment before peeling back out.
“He’s got the damn deadman switch on his phone.
And with zero cover along the wharf, there’s no way we could get to him before he’d spot us — blows the entire shipment.
” He tapped his comms. “Hey, Stone? Any trailing traffic?”
Stone breathed into the mic. “We’re two hundred meters back and the road’s clear.”
“Roger. I need you and Cross to roll up behind us, then each find a place to camp. I want eyes on the water. A clear sightline to that barge.”
“Roger, boss.”
McGuire looked over at Patch. “Well, buddy? See any viable way in that doesn’t involve either a transporter from the Enterprise or a suicide run?”
“Screw the transporter. Just give me one of their phasers.” He tapped his chin. “And I see one possibility.” He looked over at McGuire, grinned. “You’re not going to like it, though.”
McGuire groaned. “I swear, if you say we need to swim with freaking gators…”
Patch rolled his eyes. “They don’t generally venture this far up the Mississippi.
The current’s too fast, but no. Though, you might not like the fifty plus yards of exposed asphalt between us and those moorings.
But if we can make it to the bollards, we can use the tethering ropes to access the stern, where the security seems to be the thinnest.”
“That’s a long stretch of nothing, brother.”
“Would you rather swim?”
McGuire coughed. “Did I mention it’s a great night for running?” He looked in the rearview when Stone’s lights cut through the dark. “Overwatch is here.”
He stepped out, the damp, night air instantly weighing him down like a bad decision.
Rain drizzled from the sky, the muted gray tones reflected in the puddles.
A mix of salty brine and industrial diesel moved around them as a navigational buoy clanged farther up the channel.
Cross nosed his truck in behind their SUV, cutting the lights a second later.
He and Stone jumped out, rifles in hand.
McGuire nodded toward the nearby infrastructure. “Think you can find a suitable nest?”
Stone winked, the ass. “I’ve already called dibs on the grain elevator. Cross gets the terminal building.”
“We’ll stick to clicks unless needed, just in case that RF receiver’s too twitchy.”
They nodded, disappeared into the dreary night a moment later. McGuire waited until they’d radioed in, given him the green light before drawing a breath. He looked at Patch and Riven, opened his mouth to say something meaningful, when she snorted.
“We know. Don’t die.” She stepped over, kissed him. “That goes for you, too.”
Then she took off, following the shadows over to the edge of the terminal building. She waved Patch ahead, sticking to the middle as McGuire guarded their six, focus divided between the open stretch of pavement and the darkness closing in behind them.
Patch stopped at the corner, weapon at the ready, muscles bunched. He clicked his comms once, waited.
Stone clicked in return. Code green.
Patch glanced back, then stepped out, moving into the lighted stretch without making a sound.
Riven and McGuire followed behind him, staying in a low crouch as they hauled ass across the asphalt, boots crunching on the loose gravel, the scent of salt and rust riding the air.
They hit the midpoint and picked up speed, the hum of the nearby lights vibrating around them.
They reached the other side when a double click sounded in their comms. McGuire didn’t even think, he just grabbed Riven, shoved her beneath him as he and Patch hit the ground.
Voices rose off to their left, twin flashlight beams tracing the ground as two men climbed up from the lower level — started pushing toward them.
A whoosh.
Soft.
Dull.
Followed by another.
Hidden in the clang of metal from the barge. The distant squeak from the crane.
Cross sounded in their ears. “Two down. You’re cleared to the barge.”
McGuire answered with a click, then eased up. He stood, helped Riven to her feet before leaning in close. “Before you say anything, I know. DEA. Escaped from a cartel stronghold. Saved our asses. So, just consider that part of the payback.”
She snorted. “Just don’t make it a habit.”
“I…”
A low growl lit the air, the deep resonance drowning him out. He inched closer to the edge, scanned the water. “Shit. The tug’s moving. Those assholes must have been releasing the mooring lines.”
They booked it along the last of the pier, then over to the ladder that led down to the fender line at the stern of the barge. Patch slipped down first, hands and feet sliding on the outside. Riven followed him, boots slipping on the slimy rungs, but she made it, stepped back.
McGuire palmed the metal, hit the ground with a light thud. The starboard side of the barge bobbed in the river several feet away, a widening gap of gurgling dark water stretching between them.
He cupped Riven’s elbow. “Now or never, sweetheart. We’ll be right behind you.”
Riven eyed the gap, mouth pinched tight.
She surveyed the surface, looked as if she’d rather just swim, before pushing down her shoulders.
She moved back a few steps, then sprinted ahead, launched herself off the end of the pier.
She reached forward, managed to catch the metal gunwale as she slammed into the boat, boots scrambling to find purchase.
McGuire tensed, mapped out five different ways to leap over without landing on her — give her a boost — when she heaved her body up and over the edge. The night crept in around them, the spot on the barge where she should have surfaced still empty as the vessel gained another foot of separation.
He took a step, readied himself to jump when a thud carried on the breeze a moment before she stood, waved them over.
Patch shook his head, grinned, then leaped, making the nine feet look easy. As if he’d merely stepped off a curb. McGuire waited for his buddy to signal when two clicks sounded in his ear.
He dropped, tried to find the cause when a guard appeared at the rail, cigarette glowing in the dark, gaze searching the shadows. He stared over the edge, paused, then tapped the ashes into the water before turning, his footsteps crushed beneath the increased whine of the engines.
McGuire stood, eyed the gap. Nearly ten feet, now, the rail already ghosting into the fog.
He drew a breath, took off. Five running steps before he threw himself toward the barge, hands outstretched, knees pulling up to gain some momentum.
He hit the side hard, the metal slamming into his ribs, crushing out his breath on a harsh rasp.
Dots flickered across his vision, pain closing in on his chest before he shifted, hooked his leg over the side.
His rifle caught on a misaligned seam, every roll of the barge choking the strap around his neck. He clawed at the band, finally slipping it off before the next roll dragged him off, dropped him into the churning water.
Patch grabbed his vest a second later, hauled him onto the deck before pulling him under a tarp — right beside some cartel asshole who McGuire suspected Riven had downed. That thud he’d heard before she’d given them the all-clear. Why she’d taken so long to resurface.
They settled in as voices sounded nearby, footsteps quickly eating up the distance. Boots stopped in front of them, the heels visible beneath the narrow gap.
Patch readied his weapon, muzzle aimed center mass. The man muttered something in Spanish, stamped out a cigarette butt with his boot, then ambled over to the stern. He didn’t move, just hovered there as if watching the shore slowly shrink.
Riven huffed, slipped out before McGuire could grab her — hold her back. He followed, slinking under the tarp, rising off to her left, as she crept along the shadows, body primed, gaze focused. She didn’t rush, just inched closer, nothing but the hum of the tug sounding around them.
She got within several feet, then bolted.
Barreled forward, arms braced across her chest, hands fisted at her shoulders.
The guy turned as she rammed into him, riding her arms up his torso as she went — using her momentum to drive him onto his toes, then over the edge.
He inhaled, limbs flailing, hands grabbing at air before he tumbled over, disappeared beneath the churning surface.
Riven caught her balance on the rail, took a second to shake everything out, before turning, motioning McGuire back to the tarp.
Patch shook his head as they both ducked under, once again settling the fabric around them. “I’m glad you two found each other because you’re both fucking nuts.”
Riven tsked. “Please, I can take care of a few sicarios.”
Patch arched a brow. “Just remember that, as good as I am, I can’t raise the dead.” He blew out a slow breath. “I’ve got the tracker. Looks like the crate you tagged is on the tug.”
McGuire grunted. “Shit. Though, it makes sense. If Keane needed to blow them, he’d want everything and everyone to be eliminated.”
Patch nodded. “We’ll clear the barge, first. Worry about the tug if we’re all still breathing. Which means checking every crate — finding the ones with the UV marks and see if they’ve got one of our three bombs.”
A click, then Stone’s voice. “You’re nearing the middle of the channel.
Once you round the far bend, we’ll be sidelined.
You’ve likely got about twenty minutes. The tug’s moving slow, but Keane’s boat is all around that barge like a bad rash.
Keep your damn heads down. I’ll call again before I lose you. ”
McGuire grunted. “We’ve got twenty minutes to end this. If we lose our overwatch…”
Patch nodded, slipped toward the front of the tarp.
He paused, peeked out, then slipped onto the deck.
McGuire fell in behind him and Riven, constantly checking all sides as they crept along the platform.
The pallets stretched out before them like a maze, the explosives hidden within the mass of brown wood.
An engine growled just off their starboard side, Keane’s boat gunning it across the water. They dropped, waited for the boat to pass, when a spotlight split the darkness, the large circular beam bouncing across the crates.
Riven shifted in next to McGuire, her shoulder pressed against his, her breath soft against his skin. He savored the momentary contact — how her presence eased something thick inside him, despite the danger, the real possibility they wouldn’t make it out alive.
They hunkered down, holding their breath as the light passed mere inches above them, advancing, then retreating until it finally panned away, Keane’s boat charging back toward the bow. Shadows moved along the stern, more men patrolling where the tug pushed the massive barge.
McGuire sucked in a quick breath, then motioned to the pallets. They had one shot to disarm the receivers, call in the task force team. All before either Martillo or Keane discovered they’d snuck aboard.
And the countdown had just begun.