“You and me both.”
She moved back to the junction box, spent a few moments tracing all the wires before cutting the power. “Trust Keane to put a double redundancy into yours.”
“I feel special.”
“You’re something.” She pressed her comms. “McGuire? Status.”
A crackle of static, then nothing.
She glanced at Patch, tried again. “Now you’re scaring me. Status.”
A beat of silence, then his breath whispering over the airwaves before a single, distorted click sounded in the background. Not a comms click. Something else. Something far more dangerous. A man’s voice echoed over the channel, the familiar tone snaking dread through her gut.
Riven looked at Patch, reading the same recognition in his eyes. “Keane.”
McGuire crouched inside the oversized storage locker, the metal wall pressing in on him. Water dripped in the far corner,the space reeking of rust and diesel-soaked rags. Riven’s voice sounded in his ear, the desperate tone impossible to miss.
The crate creaked as the tug rolled, slipping a bit closer, wedging him tighter within the narrow space. He’d only just cut the wires when one of Herrera’s men had opened the door, attention focused on something farther down the rig. McGuire had bolted, slid into the grimy space behind the pallet before the guy had turned, sounded the alarm.
There’d been a steady stream of men, since, dragging lines and shouting out orders. He’d gotten close to sprinting for a stack of barrels, but Keane’s boat had darted past, the crew’s spotlight sweeping across the locker.
Footsteps.
Clanging up the metal stairs. Solid. Resolute.
McGuire brushed his hand over his holstered Sig. He hadn’t brought a suppressor. None of them had. Though, even silenced, it would make enough noise someone would notice — alert the others.
He waited, gauging the distance, how he’d handle multiple targets, when the deck creaked beyond the locker, the door bouncing against the wall as two men barged in.
Keane.
Dressed in black, weapon holstered under his arm, his cell clenched in one meaty fist, he stared at the crate as if he’d been sucker punched. He took a step, growled. “That fucker’s onboard. I knew he wouldn’t let it slide.”
He grabbed the guy next to him, dragged him closer. “Find him.”
The guy stumbled back, nodded, shaking out his arm as he removed a flashlight, stepped inside. He switched it on — the click overly loud as the beam bounced around the interior, lighting up discarded oil cans and old rags. He panned over tothe pallet, eyes narrowed, head tilting when McGuire exploded out from the narrow space.
The merc startled, fumbled to get his carbine angled correctly when McGuire hit him full force — tossed him back through the door and into the railing, clipping Keane as they went.
Keane tumbled onto his ass, phone skidding across the deck and over the side, his weapon stopping just shy of the lip, as the other guy hit the railing, coughing from the force.
McGuire tripped to a halt, drew his weapon, when the locker door swung toward him, knocked him on his ass. His Sig slipped free, slid under the locker before he scrambled to his feet — watched it disappear.
Anger burned beneath his skin as he grabbed the door, instead, used the same force to pin the merc’s arm to the railing. The asshole screamed, bones cracking from the blow, his rifle clattering to the floor, then over the edge as the boat listed hard to starboard. McGuire held the guy in place, landing a few more strikes before dropping him with a hard elbow to his temple.
Scuffs sounded behind him, Keane scrambling to reclaim his weapon. McGuire scanned the deck, snagged a heavy coil of wet, greasy mooring line, then hurled it at Keane just as he turned, aiming his pistol.
The line smacked into Keane’s chest, compressed his trigger finger. The weapon discharged, the single round ricocheting off a compressor behind McGuire’s shoulder before the weapon slipped from Keane’s grip, sliding under a winch drum as the tug rolled in the opposite direction.
Keane straightened, a bloody line sliced down his cheek, more lacerations on his arm as he shook out his hand, faced McGuire. The guy grinned. “After that play at the casino, I always knew it would eventually come down to this.”
McGuire rolled his shoulders, shifted his weight forward. “Then stop gushing, and let’s get on with it.”
Keane reached over his shoulder, removed a KA-BAR from between his shoulder blades. He twirled it once, then attacked, blade slicing through the air in clear arcs as he advanced, forcing McGuire to retreat. McGuire jumped back, grabbed a boat hook from its brackets on the bulkhead, then countered the first strike, catching Keane in the chest, knocking him sideways.
They regrouped, circled each other, Keane darting in, then slinking away as McGuire parried each strike, tried to hook one of Keane’s legs.
The wind kicked up, swirling the fog across the deck, tipping the tug as it battled to keep the barge moving forward. Keane lunged in close, the knife’s edge sparking along the metal handle, getting dangerously close to McGuire’s shoulder before he muscled Keane back, caught the guy with a firm strike to his ribs.