Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The air buzzed around him, the beat from the rotors punching through his chest as he hung in the air, the barge’s deck rising to meet him.
McGuire inhaled, braced for impact, as he hit the surface, a steel cleat jamming up under his vest. Hot, bright pain ripped across his ribs as the metal edges tore through his skin, stealing his breath as it dug deep.
He clenched his jaw, grunting through the burning jab before Patch and Riven appeared out of the shadows.
Patch snagged Keane’s bound arms, hauled him behind a rusted oil drum, then dumped him in a heap. He removed his med kit, slipped a syringe into Keane’s vein, then jogged back over — helped McGuire stagger upright.
Riven looped his arm over her shoulders. “You’re bleeding.”
He brushed it off, shoving the raw ache into the background as the helicopter loomed close, the rotor wash flapping the ends of the tarp. “I’m fine. But Langley’s—”
A short burst of automatic fire raked across the tug’s wheelhouse, dropped the captain and crew, then stitched a line along the barge’s stern, sparks brightening the darkness as the bullets pinged off the metal deck.
They scrambled behind that same drum, the next round chewing up the tops of some nearby pallets — blasting splinters and nails across the floor.
Ropes coiled out of the chopper’s open door, two dark silhouettes descending onto the tug before two more hit the barge deck, rifles choking out short, sharp bursts.
Patch dragged Keane with them as they darted back to the compressor, ducking in as more brass clicked off the pipes, a hiss of steam venting skyward.
Patch slipped McGuire his Sig, checked his mag, then popped up — pelted the advancing men with a stream of bullets. The forerunner took two to his vest before veering off, taking cover behind a winch. The other guy took a couple rounds to the thigh, dropped a step later.
Patch curled in, shaking his head as he changed mags. “We’re running low, and these assholes are just getting started.”
McGuire pushed to his feet, bending over to keep his head from getting shot off. “Langley’s got a jammer. I can’t call Savvy until it’s down. In the meantime, I’ll take those other two out by hand. Save the ammo for the rest of Langley’s forces. Cover me.”
“Brother, you’re in no condition…”
Patch’s voice rasped into a curse as McGuire darted out, grabbed another long hook, then sprinted for the stern, Patch peppering the helicopter with rounds.
McGuire snaked past the outer containers, rounded the corner just as the other two operatives landed on the deck, rifles not quite leveled.
He swung the hook, caught the first guy in the side of the head before diving over him, coming up inside the other bastard’s strike radius.
The merc twisted, caught McGuire in the side, but he landed a firm strike with the handle — dropped the operative a second later with a jab to his gut.
The helicopter roared in close, more shots eating up the deck.
McGuire turned, took two to his vest before stumbling behind those stacked crates.
Pain squeezed his chest, each breath burning a line straight to his lungs until he wasn’t even sure anything was getting through.
That he was sucking more than a sip of air.
Patch dove in beside him, grabbed his arm and hauled him back, all of them retreating to Keane’s position behind the compressor.
Patch slapped some sponges against McGuire’s ribcage as he readied a pressure bandage. “Press those on the wound. I’ll wrap it.”
McGuire huffed but balled them up, hissing out a breath when Patch cinched them tight, the force rolling McGuire’s eyes. His vision grayed at the edges, a dull roar echoing in his head.
Riven huffed. “You’re beyond reckless, you know that, right?”
He simply smiled, taking a quick peek through the pipes. Four more men landed on the deck, a fifth on the ropes. “Not dead, yet, sweetheart. And I don’t intend to drop before I know you’re safe.”
“How about you don’t drop, period.” She checked her mag, cursed. “I’m down to six shots.”
Patch nodded. “I’ve got one mag left for the carbine, and there’s ten in the Sig I gave McGuire.” He cursed when more rounds struck the other side of the compressor, the gunner in the helicopter getting way too close.
McGuire growled out a breath, readied his gun when a loud crack echoed across the water. He looked out, grinned when the gunner fell back inside the helicopter, the aircraft veering off after the last guy landed on deck.
Stone. And the guy hadn’t hidden it. Wanted the others to know they were all targets.
McGuire’s gaze shifted to the last man.
Tall.
Proud.
His stance oozing authority.
He didn’t need to see the asshole’s face to know his identity.
McGuire swallowed. “Langley’s here.”
Patch peered out, nodded. “Then, let’s finish this.”
McGuire snagged Patch’s wrist. “The bastard’s mine. You two keep Keane breathing and take those other four assholes off the board. I’m going for the lion.”
They took off, moving in sync until they reached the edge of their cover, Riven and Patch angling left as McGuire went right. He stayed low, sticking to the shadows, gaze centered on Langley.
Stone unleashed another shot, dumped one of Langley’s men over the side. The remaining force dove for cover, heading down the starboard side as Langley edged to port, walking like the air split to let him pass.
McGuire glanced over at where Patch and Riven had disappeared, stomach tight, his heart a dead weight against his ribs. If anything happened to her…
He pushed the thought aside. Patch would have her back. Ensure she made it out, or the man would die trying. Just like the rest of them.
The thought settled unforgivingly inside his chest as he stalked Langley, aware Riven would never be safe as long as the man was free.
Langley moved into the shadows, popping up on the other side of a few pallets as if he’d sensed McGuire’s presence.
Some kind of echolocation that had bounced back — pinpointed McGuire’s coordinates.
The general fired off a quick burst of rounds, one careening off a stanchion next to McGuire’s head as another ripped through a tarp flapping in the wind.
The third smacked into McGuire’s vest, knocked him back, but he recovered, returned two trigger pulls as he ducked behind a winch. Langley shifted, fired a stream of brass across the front and up the side of the barrier, casings clinking across the deck, a few sizzling as they landed in puddles.
McGuire blew through the last of his ammo as he reached the edge of the pallets, went vertical. A quick scramble and he dropped down the other side, knocked Langley back with a hard thump.
They stumbled, then slammed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, both vying for power.
Langley twisted, swung the hilt of his rifle into McGuire’s ribs — caught him in the same damn spot.
Lights exploded behind McGuire’s eyes, white-hot pain nearly taking him to his knees, but he countered, landed strikes to the man’s jaw and biceps.
The carbine slipped, McGuire’s next hit clattering it to the deck.
Langley reached for the Beretta holstered under his arm, managed to clip one off McGuire’s vest with a single round before McGuire tackled him, tumbled them both to the deck.
McGuire hit hard, an eerie snapping sound bubbling up from his torso as he rolled to his feet, blocked Langley’s next strike.
They wrestled, each landing a few blows, neither really gaining any traction.
Langley feinted left, freed a blade from his vest, then stabbed at the gap under McGuire’s arm.
The knife skirted across the bottom edge of his vest as McGuire slammed his elbow down, trapping Langley’s arm against his side.
Langley made eye contact, snarled, looking as if he wanted to latch onto McGuire’s neck until McGuire headbutted the bastard’s nose.
The general reeled back, arm still trapped, blood pouring down his face. He caught his balance, landed a fist to McGuire’s side, knocked the wind out of him as the force reopened the wound, blood slick against his skin. McGuire staggered back, vision blurring, the deck tilting beneath his feet.
Langley recovered, faked high, then dove in low, kicking out McGuire’s knee as he slashed at McGuire’s carotid. McGuire twisted, took a superficial slice across his forearm, deflecting the blow before hammered two quick jabs beneath Langley’s vest.
The man grunted, moved a bit slower as they clashed, tumbling against the stern rail.
The boat surged up, nearly taking them both over the side before dropping down, tearing them apart.
The tug pulled against the lines, banging into the hull as the current increased the distance, the gap between them seething with black water.
Langley pivoted, shoved McGuire against the rail, teeth bared, eyes wild. He grabbed McGuire’s vest, tried to shove him over the edge, when the tug slammed against the barge, pushed their side up.
The force lifted them a foot off the deck, dumped them over the stern as the boat slammed down, water spraying up the sides, the tug still riding the hull.
McGuire caught his weight with his left hand, ribs screaming, boots slipping against the algae-slick metal. Langley fisted McGuire’s belt, scrambling for purchase, the man’s weight dragging them both down.
Hooking his arm over the rail, McGuire braced through the next surge, muscles nearly spent. He clenched his jaw, pulled against the overwhelming weight as the tug pitched up, surging forward, the current pushing the hulls together.
Too close.
Nothing between them and the opposing boats but the wind and the rain, the spray from the river. He twisted, tried to get small, when Patch fisted his vest, lifted him clear. Langley rose beneath him, wrapped his hands around the rail just as the tug slammed down, pinned him between the hulls.
A sickening crunch echoed around them, Langley caught in the middle before the boats surged apart.
He dropped, landing on one of the tire fenders, arms hanging loose, boots dragging in the water.
He didn’t move, mouth open in a soundless scream until the next surge washed over him and pulled him under.
McGuire stared at the surface, chest heaving, every muscle on fire as the river flowed out behind them, nothing surfacing above the rippling waves.
Patch heaved him to his feet, bracing his weight, when the helicopter swooped in low, spotlight trapping them in a yellowed glow.
The bird turned, gunner door aimed their way, machine gun strapped to the cabin.
Patch fired off the last of his rounds, cracking the light, buying them a split second of time before rounds chewed a line across the hull.
McGuire found his balance, managed to stagger behind a container when a string of loud, sharp cracks lit the air. He turned, inhaled.
Riven stood off to the side, one of the merc’s rifles notched to her shoulder, muzzle flashing in the night as she popped several rounds through the helicopter’s cowling.
The engines whined, smoke pouring out of the top as the machine jerked, dropped twenty feet before angling away, limping back into the darkness.
She held her ground, swept the deck, then ran over. Grease and dirt coated her skin, fresh blood slicked in a line across her side. He frowned, reached for her, when the deck tilted.
Metal slapped him in the face, everything sliding left and right until Riven grabbed his shoulder, anchored him. He blinked, nearly puked, staring up at her as she divided her attention between him and the rest of the barge, her gaze lapping the deck before sliding to him.
She frowned, leaned down. “I distinctly told you not to drop.”
His eyes rolled as she pressed on his side, muttered something he couldn’t make out to Patch. “I didn’t drop. I just need a minute.”
Her chin quivered. Not much, but it tore at his heart — had him squeezing her arm. “You need a damn trauma surgeon.” She lifted her hand, shook her head, then pushed on it some more. Harder. Using her knee to get more leverage.
He coughed, spit out some blood, the air settling around him in a numbing gray veil. “Riven, I…”
“No. No goodbye speeches, no declarations of love. No comments how it had to be this way, just…” She closed her eyes, swallowed. “Just shut up and breathe. Patch got the call out. Cavalry’s on the way.”
McGuire nodded, faded a bit as Patch moved in beside him, took over. The night dimmed, their faces washing into the fog until he blinked, fought his way back. A deep strum filled his chest, voices murmuring in the background. Riven sat beside him, skin ashen, hands shaking.
Patch loomed over him, blocking out the background, hands moving with the steady confidence of a guy who’d dealt with death without losing his soul. He looked down at McGuire, tsked. “You’re damn lucky Savvy sent a medic chopper, too. You’re a fucking mess.”
He snorted, coughed, Set off a round of red-hot jolts through his ribs. “I’m…”
Riven glared at him. “I swear to god, if you say, fine, I’ll shoot you, myself.”
“I was going to say, I’m okay.”
“Same shit, buddy.” Patch adjusted an IV line, said something to a guy sitting behind them. “Remy’s meeting us at the hospital. He’ll have his guys help with security in case there’re any stragglers. Stand watch while you drag your ass back from the dead. And you’d better drag it back.”
He nodded, drifted again, jerking back as bright lights slid past overhead, voices calling over crappy speakers as the gurney rocked down the hallway. Riven jogged beside him, blood still caked down her side, splashes of purple blooming on her skin.
She glanced down, pressed her lips together. “They’re taking you up to surgery. Something about needing a chest tube. Removing some rib fragments. But I’ll be here when they’re done, so don’t even think about not making it back.”
He drew her down to him with a tilt of his head as the staff stopped just outside a set of glass doors. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She stood still as the gurney shuffled ahead, everything bleeding into black again, her voice carrying as the door started closing. “I mean it, jackass. Don’t die.”