Riven stopped where the room opened up to their right, an office pushed into the far side. Silhouettes moved beyond the greasy window, muffled voices carrying through the thin walls. A large diesel compressor hummed next to the last box on the staging line, casting a shadow just large enough to fit her.
McGuire snagged her wrist. “I know what you’re thinking, but if you get caught out in the open, we won’t have enough ammo to fight that war.”
She nodded. “Trust me, I faced worse odds in Colombia.”
“Trusting you isn’t the issue. Not letting you die on my watch…”
“I’ll be fine.”
She snagged her phone, cleared the area one last time, then darted out, quickstepping across the open stretch before ducking behind the compressor. Pungent fumes wafted off the engine block, the temperature rising by several degrees. She peeked around the edge, then inched her way over to the crate, body low, muscles primed for a fight.
Thick plastic wrap covered the box, a DOT card stapled on the corner, the serial number a match to one from her SD card. Galvanized nails had been replaced by stainless steel counterparts, the weights on the placard a few hundred pounds off.
Her stomach tightened.
This was definitely Herrera’s shipment.
She snapped a stream of photos as she worked her way down the line, tagging each crate with the UV pen. She reached the end, then doubled back, getting halfway across when McGuire appeared out of the shadows, boots silent against the concrete as he raced toward her. He didn’t talk, just ushered her over to a drainage system in the floor beside an old conveyor belt, popping off one of the grates. No explanation as he jumped in dragging her with him.
She scrunched down, gagging against the stench of years-old rot and diesel fuel as McGuire snagged the grate, settled it in place just as footsteps echoed nearby. He held his finger up to his mouth, carbine pointed toward the tiny squares as a set ofboots stopped next to the opening, the worn edges blocking out part of the room.
The guy shifted, that one boot scuffing over the grate. The metal screeched from the increased force, the sound rattling through her skull. McGuire didn’t seem to notice, his attention fully focused on the man above them. He moved with the guy when the asshole took a step, his heel balanced on the edge.
A curse, then the man’s voice boomed around them. Yelling out in Spanish for everyone to finish up before they missed the deadline.
Her breath caught.
El Martillo.
Martillomuttered something about hired help, tossed a cigarette butt down beside her. The end sizzled as it hit the small pool of water, sending up a tendril of smoke before sinking to the bottom. McGuire caressed the trigger whenMartilloglanced toward them, staring at the floor as if he couldn’t quite picture what was wrong before bending over, grabbing a piece of paper off the lip of the grate. He sneezed, shook his head, then strode off, his footsteps tapping toward the stack of crates.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, every nerve strung tight, as they waited in the tight space, her pulse thrumming to the same rhythm as water dripping from somewhere farther up in the drain. McGuire held steady for a few moments, focus still locked on whereMartillohad disappeared before swinging his rifle around to his back. He motioned for her to cover him as he slid his fingers into the slats, slowly inched the grate up and over. Riven held her breath, ready to lay down suppression fire if their position was compromised, as McGuire eased the lid to the floor.
He paused, scanned the warehouse, then slipped out, offering his hand once he’d cleared the drain. She accepted, moving in beside him as he repositioned the grate.
Tension bunched her shoulders, the thick, Louisiana air folding in around them as they darted from one crate to the next, finally scooting behind the compressor, again, the sudden whine of one of its belts making everything inside her jump. She held in the squeal, sticking close to McGuire when Stone came over the comms.
“Black SUV just pulled up. Looks like our buddy, Keane’s, here.”
McGuire’s shoulders rose ever so slightly, but he didn’t budge, just kept them tucked behind that machine, their shadows blending in with the compressor’s. The ambient noise dimmed for a second, then more footsteps. Louder. Heavier. The kind that spoke of arrogance and authority.
McGuire glanced at her, motioned to the other side. Riven nodded and pressed her back against the metal before leaning out — taking stock.
Bram Keane decked out in black, pistol silhouetted in a thigh holster, ballistic vest noticeably absent of any equipment. As if his sheer presence could stop an armed assault. He metMartillooutside the office doors, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand as he waved at the crates. They exchanged what looked like heated words,Martillostorming toward the main doors a minute later, back rigid, his gait reflecting his mood.
Keane walked over to the crates, checked what must have been a manifest on his phone against the cargo before removing an RF receiver from his pocket — wedging it under the bottom edge, before routing a pigtail wire to a junction box on the container. He tapped his screen, a reflected green LED pulsing to life on the concrete floor. He repeated the process with two other pallets, then headed for a group of similarly dressed men hovering around the entrance as a forklift zoomed by, started moving the final series of crates.
Riven eased back, bent her head close to McGuire’s. “Keane just armed a RF receiver with a deadman switch to three crates. If a raid hits, or if Keane feels spooked, he can blow this whole stack from a distance. It’ll level a city block. We can’t bringanyonein until we kill the RF chain.”
McGuire swore under his breath, mouth pinched tight. “This changes everything. We need to follow the shipment — get on whatever boat they’re using for transport. Keep the threat as far from shore as possible. We’ll call Savvy once we’re sure it’s clear.”
“I’ve got a tracker, but…”
But she should have placed it on one of the crates when she’d been marking them as a failsafe. Now…
She’d have to find a way that didn’t involve her getting them both caught.
He grunted, the damn forklift rolling toward the door as another moved in behind it — snagged the next container, the steady stream eating up any chance at placing it. “Patch? Buddy, we need a distraction. Make it loud and proud, brother.”