Cross shot him a finger gun in the mirror. “I’ve got this, boss, but I’d hold on, if I were you.”
McGuire checked their six, cursing when a black SUV slid out behind them a block back, Keane poised in the passenger seat. Gaze locked on McGuire’s. Keane’s driver hit the gas, started eating up the distance.
Cross gunned it, hit the road to the ramp, the red lights flashing out a steady tempo. Bells chimed, some guy in a vest waving his arms as Cross dodged around the lineup, hopped onto the sidewalk, then skated across the metal grating, horns bleating, the gate arm nearly clipping their tailgate as it fully settled in place.
He started up the bridge, the center already a few inches apart, Keane’s SUV skidding to a halt on the other side of the arm. Keane leaned out, stared. What looked like a promise he planned to keep.
The bridge lifted higher, everything inside the truck tilting as Cross hit the lip, caught air. The tug’s horn called out, an eerie silence following before they landed on the other side, fishtailing down the ramp.
Blue lights danced in the distance, a few sirens sounding above the thunder as Cross peeled off the main streets, then ducked along an industrial service road that ran parallel to the canal. The other noises faded, leaving only the rain and the truck’s fan filling in the void.
McGuire relaxed a fraction, looked at the salvaged pages in Riven’s lap, then up. “Five days. Midnight. We hit the warehouse — end this.”
Riven nodded once, fierce, determined. “We’ll need weapons, surveillance, and as much intel as we can get on the six possible sites.”
“And bandages.” Patch waved at her and McGuire. “A lot of bandages.”
McGuire snorted, hit Remy’s number. “It’s me. We need a bunk off the map for four nights, bayou side. No traceable names.”
Remy groaned. “Why do I have this recurring nightmare where I regret hiring a ghost squad?”
“You’re just pissed you missed all the action.”
“Right. I’ll text you the instructions. Coordinates are for a skiff. You’ll need it to access the cabin. Key’s under the third plank, and the fridge and generator are full. I’ll have Beau drop off a bunch of supplies at the dock.” Remy paused, breathed. “I have this nagging feeling you’ll be asking for more.”
McGuire grinned. “See, we already understand each other. And yeah, it’s gonna be a tall order but… This is it. Ride or die.”
“We’ve got your back, brother. I’ll be in touch.”
McGuire ended the call, read Cross the coordinates for the skiff pickup, then checked their six, again. The neon faded into black marsh and thick foliage, the glow of the city lights shrinking behind them. Outside, the rain softened into a hiss against the glass, only the odd flash of lightning far off in the distance.
He glanced at the pages, the white a stark contrast to Riven’s black dress, then placed his hand over hers. She didn’t question it, just leaned into him, her head landing on his shoulder.
He breathed her in, noting the hints of rose still clinging to her skin. “We’ll get Langley and Herrera. That’s a promise. All we need to do is lay low, re-arm, regroup. Then, we take the fight to them.”
CHAPTER NINE
Riven sat in the skiff, tension straining her shoulders, the wound on her arm burning through to her chest. Patch had taken a moment to clean and bandage it once they’d ditched the truck, muttering something about a hero complex, then he’d ushered her onboard the skiff Remy had arranged. They’d headed out, the eerie darkness a reminder of everything they had to lose. How they only had one play left before they were all resigned to a life in the shadows.
The motor died with a cough as McGuire cut the fuel supply, nosed the boat against a dock. Patch jumped out, secured it to a cleat, then offered her his hand. She smiled, accepted, nearly tripping against him when he all but yanked her up.
He mumbled an apology, disappeared into the darkness, rifle at his shoulder, all that tightly wound energy back in place. McGuire stepped out behind her, just as wired, only his energy wasn’t directed toward the underbrush or the red eyes blinking from beneath a cypress knoll. It focused on her, as if he feared she’d bolt or collapse at a moment’s notice. He shouldered the bags — motioned her on. She smiled, then started along the weathered planks toward the main cabin.
The structure rose out of the inky water on creosote-soaked stilts — a black silhouette looming over the water like a rumor, looking more like part of the swamp than an actual building. With a moss-covered tin roof and siding the same color as the surrounding tupelo and cypress trees, she struggled to see where they stopped and the actual cabin began.
A camo-net covered dish hung in the corner of the eaves, pointed at a clear swath of night sky. The cables snaked down the side of the hut, disappearing into what she guessed was a Faraday-lined box.
According to McGuire, this was the house atBayou des Allemands, a place that existed only on Remy’s hand-drawn maps. One of his Brotherhood Protector safehouses, though she guessed someone had to be fairly desperate to delve this deep into the bayou.
Patch appeared on the porch beneath a single light casting a yellowed circle onto the worn planks. A raised boardwalk connected this cabin to a smaller one. What looked like a bunkhouse, or maybe a security hub.
He thumbed at it, grabbed two bags from McGuire and slung them over his shoulders. “Cabin’s only got one bedroom. I assume you two can find a way to share. I’ll take the bunkhouse. Cross and Stone will maintain overwatch at the tiki hut — try to get a sense if Herrera or Langley have any intentions of changing their scheduled drop.”
Riven snagged his arm. “Are you sure? The cabin might be more comfortable.”
He snorted. “Three’s a crowd. Though, Iwillbe over during the day, so keep any fun to the nighttime hours.”
McGuire shoved the guy toward the bunkhouse, flipping him off when he winked. “Ignore, Patch. He’s been alone in the bayou too long.”
