His voice wavered in her head, mixed with the numbing fire racing down her side as she shook away the dizzy feeling.
Martilloadvanced, blocking any way out as he wrenched the pole free, tossed it behind him. Riven scrambled to her feet, whipped out a length of paracord from her pocket. The one McGuire had insisted she bring — that it could be the one piece of equipment that saved her life. She wrapped the ends around each palm, snapped the length between her hands.
Martillolaughed, the sound grating on her last nerve. “I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed.”
He attacked — threw two strong swings her way, each punishing blow testing more of her strength. The blade slid along the edge of the cord, more of a glancing blow than an actual strike. But the bastard recovered quickly, drew a long line down her ribs with the second swing.
Pain blossomed, hot and white, stealing her next breath as she backed into a stack of pallets.Martilloloomed in close, toothy grin bearing down on her.
Another click, then a plea. “Riven? Sweetheart you’re scaring me. Why aren’t you answering?”
Riven waited, chest heaving, every breath tearing at her resolve untilMartillodove at her. She pivoted, caught his knife hand in a loop of her cord, twisted it back on him as she kicked his knee, dropped him where he stood. He hit hard, something cracking in response, limbs flailing. The momentum carried her around to one side as she grabbed the knife — plunged it through his thigh then into the pallet, pinning him in place. He cried out, his voice cut short a moment later when she grabbed her Glock, brought it across his temple in a vicious silent arc.
The boat grew quiet, just the regular hum of the tug’s engine, the constant splash of water against the hull. Riven stood there, blood eating up her shirt, every bruise burning to life, until McGuire called a third time.
“Riven.”
She stumbled over to the pallet — hit the floor when her knees buckled, but she clicked the mic. “I’m here.”
A huff, then his voice low and tight. “Why do you sound winded? Like you’re in pain?”
“We can discuss that later. We need?—”
Stone cut in. “Riven. Keane’s boat is turning back. Spotlight’s sweeping the deck. You’ve got seconds before he lights you up.”
Riven grabbed her knife, placed it under the wire. “I’m good. Ready?”
The spotlight hit the pallets ten feet from her, started sweeping her way.
Patch cut in. “Locked and loaded.”
McGuire huffed. “Ready.”
Five feet and moving fast.
Riven nodded. “On my mark. One… Two…”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Riven held her breath, blade tight against the wire, the spotlight only a foot away, as she exhaled, muttered that last word, “Three.”
She yanked upward, one clean, hard slice that shredded the thin line — each end falling to the side. She stared at the LED, the tiny red light blinking twice as if drawing one last breath, before winking out.
Nothing.
No backup trigger, no boom, just the LED’s dark face backdropped by the constant thrum of the tug’s engines through the metal floor.
A brief wave of relief washed over her, followed by a sudden drop of adrenaline that shook her hands as she finally released her death grip, the knife falling to her side.
Until that spotlight lit up the pallets above her head, highlighting a few wispy strands of hair before dipping lower as if sensing her presence. Riven sprawled across the deck, Stone’s warning ringing in her ears, that beam skipping over the edge of her back. She tried to sink into the barge, muscles tensed, the stench of burnt oil lifting off the metal floor. Boots tapped a rowover, drawing closer until a radio chirped, drew the guy off in the other direction.
An engine growled off the starboard side, the light finally skipping to the next container, missingMartillo’slimp form by inches. She waited, breath held, insides churning until the whine gradually decreased.
Stone clicked the mic. “He’s moving on. Looks like a regular scan. But we’re losing you on visual. Another five minutes, tops, then you’re on your own.”
She clicked her reply, slapped a gag and some restraints onMartillo, then returned to the receiver. A quick scan and a snip, and she had the power disabled, the unit no longer a threat.
Pain teased her senses, nerves still wired as she took a breath, hit up the comms. “Patch? McGuire? Report.”
