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. McGuiretwisted, 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 draggingin 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.” Shelifted 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.”
