McGuire froze, his world narrowed into a single point. He’d been right.
It was definitely darker…
CHAPTER TWO
Riven froze, gaze locked on the man standing halfway inside the bar, gun trained on her, cartel ink peeking out of the Walmart shirt he’d likely purchased on the trip over. His buddies fanned out behind him, each covering a side of the bar.
She shifted slightly, palmed the knife she’d been using to slice lemons. Not quite the KA-BAR she’d carried in the field, but in a pinch, it’d work. She judged the distance, waited for him to do one last glance toward his men, open up that small window of opportunity for her to strike, when McGuire and his buddy Patch moved over — blocked her view.
No fear. No uncertainty.
Just tightly coiled tension ready to strike.
Her gut clenched. Either they were crazy, or they were highly trained.
She’d bet on the latter.
McGuire tilted his head, his massive physique owning the space. His right hand lingered next to his hip, but if he was armed, she couldn’t tell. “You boys look like you’re a long way from home. Thinking you should turn around before this gets ugly.”
The guy snarled, waved his Sig at McGuire’s face. “Don’t be a hero, asshole. We’re not here for you.” He looked around McGuire, caught her gaze. “Herrera’s got a message for you,puta.”
The man’s name hung in the air, buzzed around her like the damn mosquitos. No wondering if she’d misread the men. If she’d been overreacting to a simple robbery attempt. They’d come for her.
Either she exhaled a bit too loudly, or McGuire felt her twist — a ripple of air as she opened up a better sightline because he moved. Lunged right, drew the asshole’s gaze. The guy shifted, finger already caressing the trigger, McGuire nothing more than a blur amidst the thick air.
Riven flicked her wrist, tossed the knife across the bar, blade glinting off the string of lights swaying in the breeze. It hit the third guy charging across the room in his upper shoulder — sent his feet flying forward as he crashed onto one of the tables, broke through it on his way to the floor.
That scattered the remaining men. Had Patch diving left, sliding across the floor before popping up eye level with the second guy. No fancy moves, just two solid strikes to his throat followed by an elbow to his face and a boot to finish the job.
Riven palmed the counter, vaulted overtop, whiskey bottle in her other hand as McGuire twisted out of the path of the first shot like some jacked-up version of theMatrixplaying out in real time. He caught the slide on the guy’s Sig, hammered it back, discharging the chambered round before hitting the mag release.
The cartridge clattered to the ground, skidding across the floor with the help of McGuire’s boot as he slammed the guy’s hand on the table, loosened his grip on the gun. McGuire took a few hits — ribs, kidney — before he headbutted the creep, had the guy reeling backwards.
The last guy shouted, eyes wide, pulse fluttering wildly at the base of his neck. He fired, not really aiming at anything, just a spray of bullets the width of the bar. Riven hit the ground, covered her head until the gun just clicked, a tendril of smoke rising off the barrel. She rolled to her feet, tossed the bottle at the guy’s head. Hit his shoulder, instead, but it knocked him back — gave them a hint of an opening.
The boys obviously saw it too, because McGuire had his arm around her ribcage, heaving her backwards as Patch fired off a few rounds from his own weapon — the one she hadn’t even noticed.
Glass shattered, one of the beer taps shooting out white foam, as they scrambled through a swinging door, hit the kitchen in a full retreat.
She gasped in a breath when McGuire released his hold, the ghosted feel of his arm still compressing her chest. She stopped next to the rear door, kicked out a false panel beneath the window and grabbed the go-bag she’d stored there months ago.
Patch moved in beside her, weapon trained on the swinging door. “We gotta move, Riven.”
She swung the straps over her shoulders when the rear door burst open, another asshole in matching clothing barreling through.
Twin reports boomed through the room, the sheer force knocking her back. She turned, stared as McGuire stepped forward, gun still aimed at the exit, twin cartridges lying on the floor behind him. He didn’t talk, didn’t rush, just placed his hand on the small of her back, ushered her out.
The hot, damp air swallowed the sound of their boots on the old wooden planks as they raced down the dock — jumped in an old rusty skiff tethered near the end. Patch settled at the stern, yanked on the frayed line coiled around the starter. The motorcoughed, choked out a few rounds of noxious fumes before it kicked over, started churning up the water.
McGuire grabbed her head, shoved it beneath the edge a second before rounds pinged off the metal siding, a couple punching through dangerously close to her shoulder. He returned fire, calm, calculated, each shot hitting its target.
The men retreated as a huge SUV roared into the parking lot, headlights tunneling through the dark, lighting them up like a beacon. More men poured out, comms unit coiled down the back of their necks, body armor covering black camo.
Patch revved the motor, swung the boat to the left, then took off. The bow tipped up, water splashing over the sides as he skipped along the surface, the skiff finally leveling out.
He veered down a small side route, twin Jon boats cutting in behind them from the reeds. Spotlights painting them in yellow as rounds lit up the water in silver puffs.
Riven pointed to another opening on their right. “Go right, then take a sharp left at that large oak. There’s a narrow cut through the marsh that should buy us some time.”