Page 14 of Rebel
"Intelligence gathering. He had expertise in shipping manifests and supply chain logistics. He could spot patterns we missed."
"And that got him killed." It's not a question. It's an accusation, and she's right.
"The operation went wrong," I say, each word carefully measured because if I start confessing everything right here, right now, I'll never stop. "We were ambushed. The Cartel and the Vultures are working together. Alex," my voice cracks despite my best efforts. "He saved my life.He pushed me into cover and took the bullets meant for me."
The silence that follows is worse than screaming.
"So you're telling me," Rebel says, slowly, dangerously calm, "that my brother died protecting you."
"Yes."
"And you've been hunting for the people responsible ever since."
"Yes."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her mind working behind those eyes. Calculating. Analyzing. Trying to figure out if I'm lying.
"Why should I believe you?" she finally asks.
"Because I have nothing to gain by lying. And because..." I pull Alex's dog tag from under my shirt, the twin to the one she wears around her neck. "He gave me this the night before everything went to hell. He said if anything happened, I should make sure his sister didn't lose her fire."
Her hand moves to her own tag automatically. For a second, something in her expression cracks.
Then the dock explodes with gunfire.
The first shot cracks from the shadows. A clean, high-caliber sound that shatters the quiet. Rebel jerks, spinning toward the source. I catch her wrist, my instincts taking over, firm but not rough, and drag her down behind a stack of cargo crates as wood splinters above us.
“Get down!” I bark, shielding her with my body as another round whistles by.
Her elbow catches my ribs as she reaches under her jacket. “Who the hell…?” she starts.
"Vultures," I bark, returning fire. "They must have followed one of us."
She draws her own pistol and covers the opposite angle. "You think?"
She hisses as another bullet punches through the crate, inches from her shoulder. I return fire. The recoil jolts through my hands, almost comforting, as I sweep the ridge for muzzle flash.
“Three shooters, maybe four. South ridge. Clean formation. Not cartel. Professionals. Stay low,” I order.
“Don’t give me orders, Marine.”
I glance at her. “Then quit standing like a goddamn target.”
She glares. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, squeezing off another shot. “But I’m the asshole keeping you alive.”
A tracer snaps past, and sparks peel off the forklift’s mast. Clean kit. Suppressed rifles. Whoever’s paying them wants the ledgers erased, along with the bodies.
The gunfire stops as abruptly as it began. Only the ocean answers, lapping against the dock in slow, steady waves. We stay crouched, breathing in sync. I can smell the adrenaline on her skin, sharp and electric.
“You hit?” I ask, scanning her quickly.
“Not yet.”
“Good. Stay that way.”
Her glare could gut a lesser man. Good thing I like afeisty woman. “You could say thank you. I did bring my own gun.”
