Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The massive boat creaked as it swayed side to side, the lights on the shore lost to the fog and the drizzle. The tug’s engines chugged in the background, the whine an ever-present vibration up through the metal flooring.
Riven crept through the rows of pallets, the night air reeking of river rot and diesel. Keane’s boat growled in the distance, that spotlight searching another stack of crates. Strings of lights brightened the darkness, the lines swaying with every roll of the barge.
Patch removed a small wand from his pouch, a bar of LEDs stamped down the front. He leaned in, his voice just loud enough to carry over to them. “Bug sweeper. It glows brighter the closer we get. It should pick up the signal from one of the RF receivers. We can narrow it down from there.”
McGuire urged them on, a silent, steady force at their six. Moving with the confidence of a seasoned professional. Head on a constant swivel. He’d lost his carbine, but he looked equally deadly holding his Sig, muzzle glinting off the show of light from the shore.
She swallowed against the shiver that snaked down her back. She recognized the look on his face. She’d gotten a flash of it before he’d shoved her to the ground — covered her. Then again after she’d pushed that deckhand overboard.
Fear mixed with ice-cold determination.
Not over himself. She had no doubts he’d gone into every mission fully prepared to die, either for the greater good or for his brothers.
Only this time, that steely resolve was aimed at her. And she knew, if it came down to it, he’d be the one to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Unyielding resolve settled hard in her chest. He wasn’t the only one who’d taken an oath. Who’d go to extremes to see Langley exposed, the Herrera cartel deeply wounded. She’d saved his team once before. She could do it again.
Patch moved ahead, sweeping the unit back and forth, leading them through a few stacks until they reached a new row. “I’ve got three bars. One’s gotta be close.”
Riven branched off, scoured the crates, looking for anything that seemed out of place. Those stainless steel nails, or a seam that looked off-center. Too hurried, too uneven. She’d picked out dozens of them while searching for evidence in Colombia, she’d recognize their shoddy work anywhere.
There.
On the corner of a pallet marked “agricultural nitrates”.
A mismatched seam with a couple nails punched out the side.
Not something anyone would question, not even some of her DEA counterparts.
But they hadn’t spent a year entrenched in the inner bowels of the cartel.
Hadn’t learned to read signs for the sole purpose of getting one step ahead.
She moved over to it, eyed the gap between the pallet and the metal floor before dropping down, sliding beneath it. Rivets caught against her shirt, a few digging into her skin as she shimmied over to the far side, clicked on her phone’s flashlight.
A small black unit sat snugged against the edge, a tiny green LED blinking every few seconds. A thin black wire snaked up toward the external junction box, what looked like a pressure plate wedged up against the rim.
McGuire’s boots settled off to her left, followed by his hand and knee. “Well?”
She offered him her hand, thanking him when he helped ease her free. “It’s definitely our first trigger, but there’s a pressure plate that’s likely linked to a relay inside the junction box. We try to move it and…”
“Boom. What about the panel?”
“Let’s take a look.”
He snagged her wrist, stopping her from prying off the lid. “Not to be that guy, but… You do know what you’re doing, right?”
“Mostly. I mean, I helped Herrera’s men build shit like this all the time. They sometimes wire shipments in case it’s a setup. I’m pretty confident I can remove the cover without blowing us up.”
He nodded, released her hand. “Carry on.”
She shifted over, grabbed a small screwdriver, then slowly pried off the lid, careful not to touch the sides as she eased it away.
Wires wove around a central chip, the overall design sluicing ice through her veins.
She leaned closer, drawn to the red LED blinking in the center — two pulses, pause, then two more. Not merely a signal. A heartbeat.
McGuire grunted. “Based on how all the color just drained from your face, I’m guessing this isn’t a simple snip and go.”
Riven scrubbed her hand down her face, used the screwdriver to gently lift a couple of the wires.
“Not even close. This isn’t a daisy chain, it’s a living network.
A heartbeat in a sense. The light is a status pulse.
They’re talking to each other. If one unit goes offline, either destroyed, blocked, or disarmed, the others lose that heartbeat and detonate instantly.
” She sighed. “Essentially, it’s not three bombs, it’s one, with three different locations. ”
McGuire raked his hand through his hair, still scouring the area like a man possessed. “You’re saying the only way to eliminate the threat is to disarm them all at the same time.”
“If we all clip this green wire leading to the node at the same time, the network goes dead. We should be able to kill the power to each after that.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. So, we have to split up.”
It wasn’t a question, and the raw edge to his voice indicated exactly what he thought about changing strategies.
Patch held up the bug sweeper. “We already know the tagged unit is on the tug. I can find the secondary trigger with this. It’ll read the network signal, take me right to it.” He inched closer to McGuire. “But that means you’re tackling the tug.”
McGuire nodded. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way.” He tapped his chest. “My team, my risk.” He glanced at her, frowned.
She stood, shoved him toward the stern. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Riven, I’m not sure—”
“You’re the one taking all the risks. Going where all the cartel assholes seem to be congregating. Just keep your damn promise and come back.”
He clenched his jaw, looked as if he might kiss her, or maybe hike her up on his shoulder, dive overboard, before drawing himself up.
“Radio silence until we get there and clicks only — unless we’re compromised.
” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s say ten minutes.
We take these fuckers off the board and call in the cavalry. ”
“Ten minutes.”
Patch tapped his watch, pinned her with a long, hard stare, then joined McGuire.
McGuire glanced back at her. “You stay safe, and for god’s sake, no hero moments.”
His voice seemed to echo around her as he nodded once, then melted into the darkness alongside Patch, vanishing as if they’d never been there. No tapping boots. No heavy breathing, just utter silence.
She swallowed against the punch of fear. The truth that it was always going to come down to McGuire shouldering the heavy load. That even if Patch had fought him on it, he still would have gone. She just hoped she hadn’t sent him up there to die.
Uncertainty weighed on her shoulders, that double pulse openly mocking her as she grabbed her knife, placed it on the ground. She checked her watch, each second counting down as if it had gotten stuck halfway along.
The silence echoed the empty feeling slowly building in her chest, and she wondered how she’d lasted all that time alone. Survived without someone like McGuire guarding her six.
Her watch hit the two-minute mark when her comms crackled, Patch’s voice coming through. “Riven, I found the second receiver but there’s a problem. The casing’s damaged. It compromised the wire. If I don’t physically hold it in place, it’ll separate.”
And the rest would detonate.
He didn’t say it. Didn’t have to.
“Roger.”
“You know what this means, right?”
He couldn’t help her if things went sideways.
She sighed. “No hero moments. Got it.”
The line went silent, again, McGuire’s absence gnawing at her resolve. If anything happened to him…
She pushed down the riotous feelings. She could worry about the fact she’d fallen in love with the guy later.
When there weren’t armed cartel assholes walking the deck, threatening to uncover her position with every passing minute.
Like the guard coughing a few rows over, all the voices whispering in the fog.
She steadied herself, waited for McGuire’s call, when a shadow detached from the darkness, the large silhouette looming at the end of the row. She inhaled, looked up, hand instinctively reaching for her sidearm.
Martillo tsked, knife held loosely at his side as he bared half his face to the gray light.
“We meet again, Cinder, and it’s your lucky day.
We’ve been ordered not to use guns around the explosives, just in case.
” He twirled the blade in his hand, smiling down at her.
“But I know what you’re thinking. You could still shoot me.
Though, I can tell from here that gun’s not silenced, which means my men will hear the crack.
The smack of my body hitting the ground.
My voice as I call out your name. Do you have enough ammo to take them all down? ”
She swallowed, fingers wrapped around the hilt, indecision weighing her down.
He wasn’t wrong. Between the metal, the water — the report would bounce back at them.
Sound infinitely louder, even if she timed it with a creak of the boat — a blast of the horn.
But more importantly, she couldn’t risk drawing any attention to Patch.
Not when he was a fixed target holding a live trigger.
And with McGuire still searching for his receiver…
She needed to finish Martillo without alerting the rest of the boat.
Either Martillo read the moment she abandoned the thought, or he’d gotten tired of waiting because he lunged at her, knife sweeping the air in long driving arcs.
She jumped back, waited until he’d committed to striking before ducking low and left, sidestepping the next thrust, knocking him off-balance with a sharp kick to his knee.
Martillo stumbled past, collided with one of the pallets when he tried to turn and catch her on a backswing.
She scrambled over to the rail, grabbed part of a rescue pole off a set of clamps, then held it across her body, weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, muscles waiting to strike.
Martillo chuckled. “Nothing and no one will help you this time, puta.”
He struck, pummeling her with short, stabbing blows. The blade glinting in the foggy light. She blocked his next attack, landed a couple hits to his ribs before he grabbed the pole, sent her flying across the floor.
She rolled, hit the corner of a stack of pallets square in the ribs —pain crushing her side. Black dots flickered across her vision, each breath blazing fire through her lungs.
Her comms crackled, McGuire’s voice whispering over. “Tug’s a nightmare, but I’m ready.”
His voice wavered in her head, mixed with the numbing fire racing down her side as she shook away the dizzy feeling.
Martillo advanced, blocking any way out as he wrenched the pole free, tossed it behind him.
Riven scrambled to her feet, whipped out a length of paracord from her pocket.
The one McGuire had insisted she bring — that it could be the one piece of equipment that saved her life.
She wrapped the ends around each palm, snapped the length between her hands.
Martillo laughed, the sound grating on her last nerve. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed.”
He attacked — threw two strong swings her way, each punishing blow testing more of her strength. The blade slid along the edge of the cord, more of a glancing blow than an actual strike. But the bastard recovered quickly, drew a long line down her ribs with the second swing.
Pain blossomed, hot and white, stealing her next breath as she backed into a stack of pallets. Martillo loomed in close, toothy grin bearing down on her.
Another click, then a plea. “Riven? Sweetheart you’re scaring me. Why aren’t you answering?”
Riven waited, chest heaving, every breath tearing at her resolve until Martillo dove at her.
She pivoted, caught his knife hand in a loop of her cord, twisted it back on him as she kicked his knee, dropped him where he stood.
He hit hard, something cracking in response, limbs flailing.
The momentum carried her around to one side as she grabbed the knife — plunged it through his thigh then into the pallet, pinning him in place.
He cried out, his voice cut short a moment later when she grabbed her Glock, brought it across his temple in a vicious silent arc.
The boat grew quiet, just the regular hum of the tug’s engine, the constant splash of water against the hull. Riven stood there, blood eating up her shirt, every bruise burning to life, until McGuire called a third time.
“Riven.”
She stumbled over to the pallet — hit the floor when her knees buckled, but she clicked the mic. “I’m here.”
A huff, then his voice low and tight. “Why do you sound winded? Like you’re in pain?”
“We can discuss that later. We need—”
Stone cut in. “Riven. Keane’s boat is turning back. Spotlight’s sweeping the deck. You’ve got seconds before he lights you up.”
Riven grabbed her knife, placed it under the wire. “I’m good. Ready?”
The spotlight hit the pallets ten feet from her, started sweeping her way.
Patch cut in. “Locked and loaded.”
McGuire huffed. “Ready.”
Five feet and moving fast.
Riven nodded. “On my mark. One… Two…”