Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Riven held her breath, blade tight against the wire, the spotlight only a foot away, as she exhaled, muttered that last word, “Three.”
She yanked upward, one clean, hard slice that shredded the thin line — each end falling to the side. She stared at the LED, the tiny red light blinking twice as if drawing one last breath, before winking out.
Nothing.
No backup trigger, no boom, just the LED’s dark face backdropped by the constant thrum of the tug’s engines through the metal floor.
A brief wave of relief washed over her, followed by a sudden drop of adrenaline that shook her hands as she finally released her death grip, the knife falling to her side.
Until that spotlight lit up the pallets above her head, highlighting a few wispy strands of hair before dipping lower as if sensing her presence.
Riven sprawled across the deck, Stone’s warning ringing in her ears, that beam skipping over the edge of her back.
She tried to sink into the barge, muscles tensed, the stench of burnt oil lifting off the metal floor.
Boots tapped a row over, drawing closer until a radio chirped, drew the guy off in the other direction.
An engine growled off the starboard side, the light finally skipping to the next container, missing Martillo’s limp form by inches. She waited, breath held, insides churning until the whine gradually decreased.
Stone clicked the mic. “He’s moving on. Looks like a regular scan. But we’re losing you on visual. Another five minutes, tops, then you’re on your own.”
She clicked her reply, slapped a gag and some restraints on Martillo, then returned to the receiver. A quick scan and a snip, and she had the power disabled, the unit no longer a threat.
Pain teased her senses, nerves still wired as she took a breath, hit up the comms. “Patch? McGuire? Report.”
Silence stretched across the airwaves, the utter nothingness jacking up her heart rate. She clicked the mic, again. “Patch? McGuire?”
Another moment of emptiness, then Patch’s voice.
Low. Clipped. “Seems there was more damage than I thought. Network’s dead, but the relay’s still live.
If I let go of it, it’ll send a jolt to the pressure plate, and I can’t get under the pallet to wedge in a shim to prevent contact without releasing it. I’m holding on, but…”
“Where are you?”
“Two rows down, three over.”
“On my way.”
She paused just a fraction to see if McGuire would respond, then struck off, praying his silence was a matter of safety and not because he’d encountered resistance — had sacrificed his position in order to cut the wire.
Shadows moved along the rows, the odd muttered word sounding above the engines as she quickstepped across the deck, ducking behind a container whenever boots scuffed nearby. Sweat beaded her skin, the humid air hanging thick around her as she turned down the last row, caught a glimpse of Patch.
Face ashen, hand shaking, he looked as bad as she felt. He frowned when she moved in close, gaze drinking in the aftermath of her fight with Martillo. “What the fuck happened to you?”
She scoffed. “Martillo. Guy doesn’t take no for an answer.”
“Shit, are you okay? Where…”
“Skewered to one of the pallets.” She waved off the way his mouth hinged open. “I’ll explain later. First, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She crouched low, gauged the available distance, then crawled under. Mud and gunk covered the bottom, the small unit half-cracked as it pressed against the lip at an unusual angle.
Riven eased back, grabbed a few tools from the small kit she’d brought. “It must have gotten damaged by the forklift. Keane’s damn lucky the whole thing didn’t blow up on him.”
Patch smirked. “Yeah, really seeing how this might bite him in the ass.”
“I think I can carve out some of the wood, stick something inert in there…”
Her voice trailed off as footsteps sounded near the corner, a small beam brightening the darkness before one of Martillo’s men rounded the far pallet, turned toward them, rifle at his waist.
No time to think, she just snagged her knife, threw it across the dark stretch of deck as she dove forward.
The blade caught the guy in the shoulder, had him reeling back, muzzle sweeping their way.
She dodged right, grabbed a loose ratchet strap off the pallet and lassoed it around his neck as she slipped past.
The rifle clattered to the deck, the asshole’s fingers scratching at the webbing as she braced her knee in his back, pulled.
The material creaked, the metal end thumping against another pallet as they stumbled back, the guy’s size nearly taking her to her knees.
She held on, muscles cramping, that line along her ribs stealing her breath until the creep’s movements slowed, head eventually lolling to one side, body collapsing onto the floor.
She followed him down, sucking in a harsh breath before loosening her hold. A couple zap straps, and part of his shirt as a gag, and she had him heaped against one of the containers, silhouette blending in with the shadows.
Patch shook his head as she staggered over, wiped the guy’s blood off her knife before crawling under the crate. “I’m treating those wounds once I can move my damn hand.”
“Nothing life-threatening.”
“Maybe you should let the medic be the judge of that.” He sighed as she started chipping away bits of wood. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
She snorted, the small movement burning through her ribs. “I’ve seen you in action. That’s not something I’d like to be up against.”
“I don’t know. The way you throw those knives…”
“Would barely slow you down.” She slipped out, snagged his med kit and removed one of the emergency splits. Some quick work with her knife and she had the internal metal piece removed and had ducked underneath the pallet, again.
It took her holding the pressure plate with one hand as she worked the strip into place with the other, to eventually get it wedged in tight — trust they wouldn’t blow up the second Patch released his thumb.
She scooted out, nodded. “Moment of truth, I suppose.”
Patch clenched his jaw, easing his thumb back a millimeter at a time, looking as if he planned on covering her if things got messy. The relay clicked into place, everything inside her bracing for impact, as Patch wrapped her in his arms, buried her beneath him.
She waited, heart hammering, sweat slicking her skin until the moment passed, nothing but the deck creaking as Keane’s fast boat roared on the other side of the barge. She peered at the crate once Patch moved over, gave her room to breathe. “Guess it worked.”
Patch shook out his hand as he readied his weapon, darting out to check the area before coming back. “I think I aged five years.”
“You and me both.”
She moved back to the junction box, spent a few moments tracing all the wires before cutting the power. “Trust Keane to put a double redundancy into yours.”
“I feel special.”
“You’re something.” She pressed her comms. “McGuire? Status.”
A crackle of static, then nothing.
She glanced at Patch, tried again. “Now you’re scaring me. Status.”
A beat of silence, then his breath whispering over the airwaves before a single, distorted click sounded in the background. Not a comms click. Something else. Something far more dangerous. A man’s voice echoed over the channel, the familiar tone snaking dread through her gut.
Riven looked at Patch, reading the same recognition in his eyes. “Keane.”
McGuire crouched inside the oversized storage locker, the metal wall pressing in on him. Water dripped in the far corner, the space reeking of rust and diesel-soaked rags. Riven’s voice sounded in his ear, the desperate tone impossible to miss.
The crate creaked as the tug rolled, slipping a bit closer, wedging him tighter within the narrow space.
He’d only just cut the wires when one of Herrera’s men had opened the door, attention focused on something farther down the rig.
McGuire had bolted, slid into the grimy space behind the pallet before the guy had turned, sounded the alarm.
There’d been a steady stream of men, since, dragging lines and shouting out orders. He’d gotten close to sprinting for a stack of barrels, but Keane’s boat had darted past, the crew’s spotlight sweeping across the locker.
Footsteps.
Clanging up the metal stairs. Solid. Resolute.
McGuire brushed his hand over his holstered Sig. He hadn’t brought a suppressor. None of them had. Though, even silenced, it would make enough noise someone would notice — alert the others.
He waited, gauging the distance, how he’d handle multiple targets, when the deck creaked beyond the locker, the door bouncing against the wall as two men barged in.
Keane.
Dressed in black, weapon holstered under his arm, his cell clenched in one meaty fist, he stared at the crate as if he’d been sucker punched. He took a step, growled. “That fucker’s onboard. I knew he wouldn’t let it slide.”
He grabbed the guy next to him, dragged him closer. “Find him.”
The guy stumbled back, nodded, shaking out his arm as he removed a flashlight, stepped inside.
He switched it on — the click overly loud as the beam bounced around the interior, lighting up discarded oil cans and old rags.
He panned over to the pallet, eyes narrowed, head tilting when McGuire exploded out from the narrow space.
The merc startled, fumbled to get his carbine angled correctly when McGuire hit him full force — tossed him back through the door and into the railing, clipping Keane as they went.
Keane tumbled onto his ass, phone skidding across the deck and over the side, his weapon stopping just shy of the lip, as the other guy hit the railing, coughing from the force.
McGuire tripped to a halt, drew his weapon, when the locker door swung toward him, knocked him on his ass. His Sig slipped free, slid under the locker before he scrambled to his feet — watched it disappear.