The exit opened onto another narrow alley, a string of flags sagging overhead on one end. People sang somewhere in the distance, music drowning out the late-afternoon traffic.
She turned right, stopped as two men stepped into the alley, rifles visible under their jackets. They grinned, the guy on the left lifting the weapon to his shoulder just as a motorcycle screeched into the intersection, backend fishtailing right. It hit the guy full force — sent him flying into the wall and down the brick, head cracking against the cobblestone.
The rider removed a silenced nine-millimeter — fired three rounds dead center. Tight. Controlled. The second shooter dropped, blood quickly eating up his white shirt.
The guy raised his visor, blue eyes staring back at her as he holstered the weapon — offered her a second helmet. “You can stand there, waiting for their friends to catch up, or you can hop onboard, Cinder. Your choice.”
Shit.
Her codename, which meant he was either part of the save, or simply taking her to a second location.
No option.
She ran forward, slipped on the helmet, then swung her leg over the seat, cinching her arms around his waist. He took off, a volley of gunfire skipping off the street as Herrera’s men swarmed the alley, angry shouts quickly fading into the rush of the wind, the growl of the engine.
A click, then the man’s voice over the helmet comms. “Hold tight. We’re not clear, yet.”
They shot down the winding alley, jumped across two lanes of traffic, then squeezed between a truck and a bus. Sparks flared beneath the bike as the peg scraped the stone, damn near sent them flying.
He muscled the machine upright, tires smoking as he cut in front of a mini, left the plaza behind.
Riven held firm, already working through how she’d grab his weapon, maybe jump as he slowed for a corner, when he eased up, glanced back at her over his shoulder.
He chuckled. “Easy, Agent Ashburn. No need for any ninja moves. I’m one of the good guys.”
She cocked her head to the side, fingers hovering next to his piece. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Hale. I’m a friend of a friend. Your handler, Swanson, called my friend. He was compromised. Didn’t want torisk a confrontation. Said you’d need a ride, a place to lay low, and since I happened to be in the neighborhood…”
“This friend got a name?”
“You can call her Savvy. She wanted to thank you for saving that team. Has a vested interest in their continued ability to breathe. Once we get to the airstrip, I’ll patch her in.”
“Airstrip?”
“The situation’s way too hot for you to stay here. She’s got a plan.” He looked back, again. “You need to disappear, Riven. And Savvy’s going to help you vanish.”
CHAPTER ONE
Six months later…
The Cypress Cove tiki bar
Bayou Mambaloa, Louisiana
McGuire sat at the old wooden table, nursing a beer as the ceiling fans whirled overhead, losing the battle against the thick Louisiana air. The rising moon glinted off the black water of the backwoods bayou, a layer of clouds moving in fast. Red eyes blinked in the distance, disappearing beneath the inky depths as the constant blue flash of the bug light buzzed in the background.
God, he hated the bayou.
The mosquitos, the gators, the oppressive heat that slapped him in the face whenever he moved. How everywhere smelled like fried shrimp and day-old regret. But mostly, he hated that the backwater, gator-infested small town had saved their lives.
Not literally. His sister, Savvy, had done that. Scrubbed their military records, erased their civilian files — destroyed any record they’d ever existed. Then, she’d arranged for a new life aspart of the Shadow Hounds. An off-the-books division of Hank Patterson’s Brotherhood Protectors, run by Remy Montagne, former-Navy SEAL, and McGuire’s current boss.
His team wasn’t flashy — didn’t take the usual jobs the other divisions secured. No glamor shots with five-star accommodations for them. In fact, most of their assignments bordered on illegal. The kind of missions that needed moral fluidity.
Having a family connection to the place had been a godsend. Had opened doors even Hank wouldn’t have been able to budge. It didn’t matter that McGuire had never set foot in the bayou before he’d exited the small, commuter plane his sister had chartered, he had the LaSalle name. And that carried weight. The old adage of blood being thicker than water.
And LaSalle blood was like a voodoo spell down here — mysterious, yet impossible to resist.