The man stumbled, tripping forward when the tug lurched, bumped the barge as the boats jostled against the waves. McGuire fell against the locker, one foot slipping on a smear of oil leaking from inside. He lost his balance, let the hook slip just enough Keane surged forward, brought the knife down with lethal intent.
McGuire countered, dropped the hook, blocking Keane’s strike with a clashing of forearms, both men stumbling from the force. McGuire’s back hit the metal wall, that knife still inching toward his throat.
Keane used his position to drive his knee into McGuire’s thigh, cramping his muscles, the blade skimming across his skin. McGuire grunted, spun, dropping his shoulder as he slipped sideways, driving the knife into the wall. It reefed to one side, breaking Keane’s hold and slamming his wrists into the locker.
Keane shouted, tried to turn, but McGuire slipped behind him, wrapped his arm across his throat, squeezed. The other man flailed, landing elbows to McGuire’s ribs, a few kicks to his shins before he coughed, slowly slinked to the floor.
McGuire eased him onto the deck, flipped him over and secured his hands with a set of zip ties. Pain coursed through his muscles, every cut and hit sizzling to life when something thundered in the distance.
He checked his six, working out how to get Keane over to the barge — secure the bulk of the cargo — when the sound grew louder, a steady beat bouncing off the water. He peered into the darkness, squinting to see through the fog as a blacked-out helicopter ghosted into view, screaming toward them, skids no more than ten feet off the river.
No running lights.
No tail numbers.
Just the dark silhouette emerging out of the night.
Langley.
McGuire tapped his comms as he reached for Keane, heaved him over his shoulder. “We’ve got a problem.”
Static blasted his ear, spiking pain through his temples as the line crackled before cutting off. No warning, no garbled call, just emptiness.
Jammer.
He cursed, started toward the bow, working on how he’d bridge the gap with Keane nothing but dead weight across his back. McGuire made it down the stairs and over to the rail when Keane’s fast boat curled in close, a couple of the men readying themselves to jump over. McGuire lunged forward, snagged a flare off the tug’s emergency rack, then cracked it.
Sparks punched out the top, smoke curling all around him as he tossed it into the boat, the stick bouncing along the deck, setting any hint of flammable material on fire.
The men shouted, veered off, disappearing into the night as the chopper bore down on them, side door opening, a black silhouette settling in.
McGuire picked up the pace, hauled ass the last fifteen feet to the bow. He stopped just shy of the end, peering over the side where the two hulls nearly kissed each other. Black angry water roiled in the gap, white waves turning in on themselves.
It hadn’t looked this bad when he’d jumped onto the tug. Whether it was the added height or Keane’s dead weight, McGuire wasn’t sure. But if he didn’t time if perfectly, they’d both be crushed.
Shouts rose behind him, a couple PMO guys rallying to fight.
No choice.
McGuire simply scrambled onto the rail, timed the surging waves and jumped.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The air buzzed around him, the beat from the rotors punching through his chest as he hung in the air, the barge’s deck rising to meet him.
McGuire inhaled, braced for impact, as he hit the surface, a steel cleat jamming up under his vest. Hot, bright pain ripped across his ribs as the metal edges tore through his skin, stealing his breath as it dug deep. He clenched his jaw, grunting through the burning jab before Patch and Riven appeared out of the shadows.
Patch snagged Keane’s bound arms, hauled him behind a rusted oil drum, then dumped him in a heap. He removed his med kit, slipped a syringe into Keane’s vein, then jogged back over — helped McGuire stagger upright.
Riven looped his arm over her shoulders. “You’re bleeding.”
He brushed it off, shoving the raw ache into the background as the helicopter loomed close, the rotor wash flapping the ends of the tarp. “I’m fine. But Langley’s?—”
A short burst of automatic fire raked across the tug’s wheelhouse, dropped the captain and crew, then stitched a line along the barge’s stern, sparks brightening the darkness as the bullets pinged off the metal deck. They scrambled behind thatsame drum, the next round chewing up the tops of some nearby pallets — blasting splinters and nails across the floor.
Ropes coiled out of the chopper’s open door, two dark silhouettes descending onto the tug before two more hit the barge deck, rifles choking out short, sharp bursts. Patch dragged Keane with them as they darted back to the compressor, ducking in as more brass clicked off the pipes, a hiss of steam venting skyward.
Patch slipped McGuire his Sig, checked his mag, then popped up — pelted the advancing men with a stream of bullets. The forerunner took two to his vest before veering off, taking cover behind a winch. The other guy took a couple rounds to the thigh, dropped a step later.