Chapter 15 #2
Anger burned beneath his skin as he grabbed the door, instead, used the same force to pin the merc’s arm to the railing.
The asshole screamed, bones cracking from the blow, his rifle clattering to the floor, then over the edge as the boat listed hard to starboard.
McGuire held the guy in place, landing a few more strikes before dropping him with a hard elbow to his temple.
Scuffs sounded behind him, Keane scrambling to reclaim his weapon. McGuire scanned the deck, snagged a heavy coil of wet, greasy mooring line, then hurled it at Keane just as he turned, aiming his pistol.
The line smacked into Keane’s chest, compressed his trigger finger. The weapon discharged, the single round ricocheting off a compressor behind McGuire’s shoulder before the weapon slipped from Keane’s grip, sliding under a winch drum as the tug rolled in the opposite direction.
Keane straightened, a bloody line sliced down his cheek, more lacerations on his arm as he shook out his hand, faced McGuire. The guy grinned. “After that play at the casino, I always knew it would eventually come down to this.”
McGuire rolled his shoulders, shifted his weight forward. “Then stop gushing, and let’s get on with it.”
Keane reached over his shoulder, removed a KA-BAR from between his shoulder blades.
He twirled it once, then attacked, blade slicing through the air in clear arcs as he advanced, forcing McGuire to retreat.
McGuire jumped back, grabbed a boat hook from its brackets on the bulkhead, then countered the first strike, catching Keane in the chest, knocking him sideways.
They regrouped, circled each other, Keane darting in, then slinking away as McGuire parried each strike, tried to hook one of Keane’s legs.
The wind kicked up, swirling the fog across the deck, tipping the tug as it battled to keep the barge moving forward.
Keane lunged in close, the knife’s edge sparking along the metal handle, getting dangerously close to McGuire’s shoulder before he muscled Keane back, caught the guy with a firm strike to his ribs.
The man stumbled, tripping forward when the tug lurched, bumped the barge as the boats jostled against the waves.
McGuire fell against the locker, one foot slipping on a smear of oil leaking from inside.
He lost his balance, let the hook slip just enough Keane surged forward, brought the knife down with lethal intent.
McGuire countered, dropped the hook, blocking Keane’s strike with a clashing of forearms, both men stumbling from the force. McGuire’s back hit the metal wall, that knife still inching toward his throat.
Keane used his position to drive his knee into McGuire’s thigh, cramping his muscles, the blade skimming across his skin.
McGuire grunted, spun, dropping his shoulder as he slipped sideways, driving the knife into the wall.
It reefed to one side, breaking Keane’s hold and slamming his wrists into the locker.
Keane shouted, tried to turn, but McGuire slipped behind him, wrapped his arm across his throat, squeezed. The other man flailed, landing elbows to McGuire’s ribs, a few kicks to his shins before he coughed, slowly slinked to the floor.
McGuire eased him onto the deck, flipped him over and secured his hands with a set of zip ties. Pain coursed through his muscles, every cut and hit sizzling to life when something thundered in the distance.
He checked his six, working out how to get Keane over to the barge — secure the bulk of the cargo — when the sound grew louder, a steady beat bouncing off the water.
He peered into the darkness, squinting to see through the fog as a blacked-out helicopter ghosted into view, screaming toward them, skids no more than ten feet off the river.
No running lights.
No tail numbers.
Just the dark silhouette emerging out of the night.
Langley.
McGuire tapped his comms as he reached for Keane, heaved him over his shoulder. “We’ve got a problem.”
Static blasted his ear, spiking pain through his temples as the line crackled before cutting off. No warning, no garbled call, just emptiness.
Jammer.
He cursed, started toward the bow, working on how he’d bridge the gap with Keane nothing but dead weight across his back.
McGuire made it down the stairs and over to the rail when Keane’s fast boat curled in close, a couple of the men readying themselves to jump over.
McGuire lunged forward, snagged a flare off the tug’s emergency rack, then cracked it.
Sparks punched out the top, smoke curling all around him as he tossed it into the boat, the stick bouncing along the deck, setting any hint of flammable material on fire.
The men shouted, veered off, disappearing into the night as the chopper bore down on them, side door opening, a black silhouette settling in.
McGuire picked up the pace, hauled ass the last fifteen feet to the bow. He stopped just shy of the end, peering over the side where the two hulls nearly kissed each other. Black angry water roiled in the gap, white waves turning in on themselves.
It hadn’t looked this bad when he’d jumped onto the tug. Whether it was the added height or Keane’s dead weight, McGuire wasn’t sure. But if he didn’t time if perfectly, they’d both be crushed.
Shouts rose behind him, a couple PMO guys rallying to fight.
No choice.
McGuire simply scrambled onto the rail, timed the surging waves and jumped.