That was all the opening McGuire needed. He exhaled, fired, hit the steering linkage at the back of the outboard motor. The engine sputtered, smoke pouring off the cowling, as it locked the controls into a hard turn. The vessel spun, clocking several tight rings before plowing onto the muddy bank with a gut-wrenching crunch of fiberglass.
Some of the men flew over the side, landed in the marsh with a curse, the engine’s whine violently cutting off. Stone kept the throttle down, skillfully guided them back to the main channel.
Patch shouldered in beside McGuire. “Nice shooting, buddy. Glad you haven’t lost all your skills.”
McGuire flipped him off. “Name one?”
Patch thumbed at Riven. “Flirting.”
“You’re an ass.”
“And yet, bang fucking on.”
McGuire shoved Patch, smiled at Riven. “Please tell me you’ve got everything you need to source out this shadow ledger.”
She opened her burner phone, scrolled through a few screens, eyes narrowed, lips moving without saying anything. She tilted her head, smiled. “How do you guys feel about doing a bit of gambling in New Orleans?”
Patch frowned. “Gambling?”
“At the Crescent Belle Casino.” She held up her phone, showed them the translated passphrase. “Who knows, we might just hit the jackpot.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thunder rolled overhead, the deep boom trembling the mortar around the old brickwork as Riven stepped out of the taxi, hair pinned up on one side, black dress hugging her body, the long slit providing just enough freedom she’d be able to fight if needed. Her heels clicked on the wet cobblestone, as she crossed the street, the casino’s neon sigh reflecting on the slick surface.
She checked her watch, the minute hand nearing midnight. Their only available window to grab the shadow ledger before the passphrase became obsolete.
Her comms clicked, Stone’s voice coming through. “Riven, we’ve got you nearing the casino doors. Once you’re inside, switch to channel four. Patch and McGuire are already inside. McGuire’s video link is live. Backup vehicle in place. Hit us back if things go sideways. We’ll be on overwatch.”
She acknowledged with a small nod, smiling at the concierge as he held the door, watched her walk through the foyer toward the VIP section, her steps hushed against the high-end carpet. The main floor provided a chaotic background of ringing slots, flashing lights and expensive perfume, all designed to hide the late hour — encourage gamblers to keep playing.
Another man stood by a red velvet rope, gaze constantly scanning the floor, his greasy hair slicked back. A white coiled cable snaked down the back of his left ear, a hint of cartel ink peeking out of his sleeve.
She smiled at him, flashed the membership card Remy had somehow pulled out of thin air during their rendezvous to grab clean clothes and a few high-tech tools, then continued on as the bouncer unclipped the hook — allowed her access. She slid the card back in her purse, used the movement to switch her receiver to channel four, then climbed the steps to the second level. She settled into a curved leather booth in the Elysian Fields lounge, ordered a club soda with a lemon twist, then peered at the public floor spread out beneath her.
Her comms earpiece broadcast a steady stream of data, the ambient noise of the casino floor picked up by Patch’s mic as he stepped out from behind a pillar, smiled, then headed for the craps table. Dressed in a simple black suit with a white button-down, he looked classy without overselling it.
McGuire appeared a moment later, suave, with a similar suit and shirt, his massive shoulders straining the seams a bit. He looked sexy and dangerous, and she had to focus on breathing — drawing air in, then pushing it out — instead of how much she wanted to slide that jacket off him. Feel the power in his muscles move beneath her palms.
Either she whispered his name or made some kind of guttural sound because he slowed, glanced up at her, brow arched, gaze assessing everything. He studied her for a moment, then continued toward an old mahogany door recessed against the far wall.
A pep talk to keep her head in the game — centered on him but not in the way her riotous heart wanted — then she opened her phone, clicked on his camera feed, the button cam displaying a jerky, constant stream of people rushing past. A bittoo disjointed to make sense of, but she did her best, keeping the feed in her peripheral vision.
A shiver worked down her spine as she scanned the floor again. While she’d been undercover more than she cared to admit, being on the other side — watching the feeds, calling out cues, aware she had little control over whether the situation turned critical or not — rattled her. Knowing McGuire was taking all the risks. That Patch would intervene first.
She didn’t like being sidelined, but with her face on Herrera’s most wanted list, simply entering the casino — flashing that VIP card to thesicariowith the bad hairline — constituted a near-suicide mission.
Of course, she looked a bit different with her hair done, her dress sparkling in the overhead lights, than when she’d been knee-deep in the jungle mud, hair a constant frizz around her face. But she knew if she stayed too long, one of Herrera’s guards would eventually place her via their CCTV.
All the more reason to grab the ledger and leave.
Movement.
Next to the baccarat tables. Two ofMartillo’slieutenants — burly men in expensive suites with matching comms units in their right ears, bulges showing beneath their jackets. They settled in as they scoured the floor, mouths pinched tight, heads on a swivel.
She pretended to sip her drink, hitting the mic. “Two goons, center stage. Eyes making the rounds.”
Patch gave a curt nod from his table as McGuire raked his fingers through his hair.
