Riven crept through the rows of pallets, the night air reeking of river rot and diesel. Keane’s boat growled in the distance, that spotlight searching another stack of crates. Strings of lights brightened the darkness, the lines swaying with every roll of the barge.
Patch removed a small wand from his pouch, a bar of LEDs stamped down the front. He leaned in, his voice just loud enough to carry over to them. “Bug sweeper. It glows brighter the closer we get. It should pick up the signal from one of the RF receivers. We can narrow it down from there.”
McGuire urged them on, a silent, steady force at their six. Moving with the confidence of a seasoned professional. Head on a constant swivel. He’d lost his carbine, but he looked equally deadly holding his Sig, muzzle glinting off the show of light from the shore.
She swallowed against the shiver that snaked down her back. She recognized the look on his face. She’d gotten a flash of itbefore he’d shoved her to the ground — covered her. Then again after she’d pushed that deckhand overboard.
Fear mixed with ice-cold determination.
Not over himself. She had no doubts he’d gone into every mission fully prepared to die, either for the greater good or for his brothers.
Only this time, that steely resolve was aimed at her. And she knew, if it came down to it, he’d be the one to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Unyielding resolve settled hard in her chest. He wasn’t the only one who’d taken an oath. Who’d go to extremes to see Langley exposed, the Herrera cartel deeply wounded. She’d saved his team once before. She could do it again.
Patch moved ahead, sweeping the unit back and forth, leading them through a few stacks until they reached a new row. “I’ve got three bars. One’s gotta be close.”
Riven branched off, scoured the crates, looking for anything that seemed out of place. Those stainless steel nails, or a seam that looked off-center. Too hurried, too uneven. She’d picked out dozens of them while searching for evidence in Colombia, she’d recognize their shoddy work anywhere.
There.
On the corner of a pallet marked “agricultural nitrates”. A mismatched seam with a couple nails punched out the side. Not something anyone would question, not even some of her DEA counterparts. But they hadn’t spent a year entrenched in the inner bowels of the cartel. Hadn’t learned to read signs for the sole purpose of getting one step ahead.
She moved over to it, eyed the gap between the pallet and the metal floor before dropping down, sliding beneath it. Rivets caught against her shirt, a few digging into her skin as she shimmied over to the far side, clicked on her phone’s flashlight.
A small black unit sat snugged against the edge, a tiny green LED blinking every few seconds. A thin black wire snaked up toward the external junction box, what looked like a pressure plate wedged up against the rim.
McGuire’s boots settled off to her left, followed by his hand and knee. “Well?”
She offered him her hand, thanking him when he helped ease her free. “It’s definitely our first trigger, but there’s a pressure plate that’s likely linked to a relay inside the junction box. We try to move it and…”
“Boom. What about the panel?”
“Let’s take a look.”
He snagged her wrist, stopping her from prying off the lid. “Not to be that guy, but… You do know what you’re doing, right?”
“Mostly. I mean, I helped Herrera’s men build shit like this all the time. They sometimes wire shipments in case it’s a setup. I’m pretty confident I can remove the cover without blowing us up.”
He nodded, released her hand. “Carry on.”
She shifted over, grabbed a small screwdriver, then slowly pried off the lid, careful not to touch the sides as she eased it away. Wires wove around a central chip, the overall design sluicing ice through her veins. She leaned closer, drawn to the red LED blinking in the center — two pulses, pause, then two more. Not merely a signal. A heartbeat.
McGuire grunted. “Based on how all the color just drained from your face, I’m guessing this isn’t a simple snip and go.”
Riven scrubbed her hand down her face, used the screwdriver to gently lift a couple of the wires. “Not even close. This isn’t a daisy chain, it’s a living network. A heartbeat in a sense. The light is a status pulse. They’re talking to each other. If one unit goes offline, either destroyed, blocked, or disarmed, theothers lose that heartbeat and detonate instantly.” She sighed. “Essentially, it’s not three bombs, it’s one, with three different locations.”
McGuire raked his hand through his hair, still scouring the area like a man possessed. “You’re saying the only way to eliminate the threat is to disarm them all at the same time.”
“If we all clip this green wire leading to the node at the same time, the network goes dead. We should be able to kill the power to each after that.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic. So, we have to split up.”
It wasn’t a question, and the raw edge to his voice indicated exactly what he thought about changing strategies.
Patch held up the bug sweeper. “We already know the tagged unit is on the tug. I can find the secondary trigger with this. It’ll read the network signal, take me right to it.” He inched closer to McGuire. “But that means you’re tackling the tug.”
McGuire nodded. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way.” He tapped his chest. “My team, my risk.” He glanced at her, frowned.
