36. Blake
36
BLAKE
Clayton pilots the Peregrine northward along the Pacific coast, the vessel cutting through the water with the speed of a fighter jet. It’s the swift offense we need, yet my thoughts are tangled with worries since Georgia-May’s communications ceased. Was she discovered? Or did she simply decide to play it safe?
In what feels like mere moments, the Peregrine slips silently into Maravino Point dock, our lights extinguished. The desolate port greets us, its cranes towering like idle giants, their arms suspended above the waves. Surrounding warehouses, their gaping windows like empty skulls. Old containers scattered across the yard add to the ghostly scene.
Guns in hand, we ascend to the port, our movements quieter than the tide lapping the piers.
“I almost forgot you’re a lefty,” Clayton notes, observing how my fist clenches around the Glock’s handle.
The last time we were armed and in action was during Isabelle’s rescue, a mission that now feels like a lifetime ago.
Once we’re on solid ground, Clayton and I survey the expanse. Our first point of investigation is the container yard nearby.
“Georgia-May must have glimpsed the port code somewhere. She wouldn’t be held in one of these abandoned tin castles,” I murmur to Clay as we move stealthily among them. Our flashlight beams catch only peeling paint and rusted metal—no sign of life, and the numbers we find are ordinary identifiers, none matching the code Georgia-May transmitted.
Clay’s gaze sweeps the dim landscape. “We should cover more ground—split up,” he suggests, and I agree.
Time stretches thin as I head west while Clay takes the opposite direction. We keep our communication lines open, our radios crackling discreetly in the silent air. Each space I check is in the same conditions, their vast openings revealing nothing but emptiness—poor shelters for anyone, let alone for concealing sophisticated tech.
We reconvene at the crumbling remnants of what might have once been an office—possibly the old port authority. Clay’s jaw is clenched, frustration etched across his features.
I call HQ. “Thomas, has she sent anything more?”
“No, the messages have stopped since she sent the port code, and I can’t get through to her.”
I end the call, pivoting away from Clayton. “Fuck!” I sigh to myself.
“What do you want to do, Blake?”
“She must be inside a building,” I mutter.
“But look around, there’s no building with its four walls intact.”
I rub my chin, scanning the horizon of broken facades. “It’s an old port. Maybe there are parts that weren’t completely demolished. Like a basement or something hidden under all this.”
“Quite possibly,” Clayton shares my theory. “A basement could easily go unnoticed.”
We resolve to extend our search, shifting our focus from the initial areas of our split. “Stay alert and check in every five minutes,” I instruct, adjusting my headset.
My boots glide silently over gravel and shattered glass as I navigate the warehouses. Clay’s intermittent radio updates break the silence, each only confirming that he’s still empty-handed. I scour the area for any hint of access—a vent, a doorway, perhaps a seam in the earth hinting at hidden passages.
I move toward another section of the port, entering the largest structure I’ve encountered so far, likely an old cargo warehouse. As I sweep the flashlight across the space, something catches my eye. A slight depression in the ground. It appears intentional, an outline almost obscured by years of dirt and debris.
The ground under my boots feels unsteady, but I’ve got to check out the spot. I clear the area with my foot, revealing what looks like a rusted metal ring embedded in the ground. It’s a handle. I tug at it, and a heavy grate creaks open, exposing a void below.
Excitement gives way to caution as I peer into the blackness. The air is musty, thick with the smell of damp earth. I find a somewhat stable-looking ladder and start my descent. But as I shift my weight onto a lower rung, the ground at the edge of the hole gives way. I’m falling before I can act, crashing down into the darkness.
Pain lances up my leg as I slam onto the uneven ground. A rumble above warns of an imminent collapse. I dive into a small alcove in the earth just as dirt and stones rain down, cutting off the light from above. As the downpour settles, I reach for my radio but find nothing—lost, likely buried beneath the scattered debris.
As my hands frantically sweep away the rubble, faint noises break the silence. Clearly human, punctuated by the sporadic crash of objects being shattered. It appears I’m in a chamber, with these sounds filtering through from a neighboring one.
Shit! My tumble must have alerted whoever is lurking on the other side.
With no time to hunt for my radio, I must press on without Clay’s backup. Fortunately, my torch remains lit, providing a slender beam against the unforgiving darkness.
I move toward the opposite wall with cautious steps, anticipating what—or who—waits around the corner. I hope one of them is Georgia-May. If she’s kept in another building, her captors would surely have raised an alarm by now, possibly planning their escape. But there are limited options for hiding in this forsaken port. Instinct tells me this is Bertram’s only lair.
My search leads to a narrow passage, a sliver of hope that propels me forward. The passage opens into another chamber, lit by a single bulb that dies the moment my silhouette crosses the threshold.
Shots ring out. I’m in the right place.
I duck reflexively, the sound of bullets echoing off concrete walls. I fire back blindly toward the flashes of their gunfire, the staccato sounds of our exchange piercing the silence. Taking shelter, I roll behind a stack of crates, shards of concrete raining down as their shots find the wall behind me.
I count the seconds between their fire to gauge their positions. Two of them, likely. Trained, but not expecting me to fight back this hard. I squeeze the trigger again, my aim guided by the fleeting memory of where the flashes had been. A groan tells me one shot found its mark. I pivot, targeting where I estimate the second assailant hides.
The air is thick with the smell of gunpowder. Everything is still.
I press on, crouched low, not trusting the silence to start exploring.
Moments pass, and confident that I’m alone, I sweep my torchlight across the chamber. The beam reveals a chaotic scene of equipment hastily, perhaps desperately, smashed to pieces.
I approach the biggest computer terminal, noticing specks of blood on the desk’s edge. Despite the fear tightening in my chest, I search for more signs of a struggle but find nothing. Until a familiar glint under the desk catches my eye.
“Georgia-May,” I murmur, stooping to pick up her infinity pendant. I scan the floor. No more blood. Though I’m certain Bertram wouldn’t kill her, the threat of harm is undeniable.
I press the pendant to my chest for a fleeting moment, then tuck it safely into my shirt pocket as a makeshift talisman. Rising, I ready my Glock. “Georgia-May!” I shout.
But the chamber only throws back my own call.
Further search brings me to another section of the chamber, where I discover a different passageway hidden behind a wall, thicker than the others. It reveals a series of stone steps, worn and moss-covered, undoubtedly leading up to ground level toward that dilapidated warehouse above. It dawns on me that I had initially entered through another, unfortunately unstable, part of this sprawling complex.
Above me, the sound of hurried footsteps. Someone is either fleeing or hunting me down. As I ascend, the air shifts. A light breeze, carrying the salty tang of the sea, reminds me of my initial entry into this hidden place.
I propel myself upward, the stone steps blurring beneath me. Finally, I burst onto the ground level.
No one.
What the hell was I hearing?
I navigate the area cautiously, keeping close to a wall, aware that the unstable ground beneath me could give way and send me tumbling into another sinkhole.
Amid the drafts flowing through the gaps and hollow windows alongside me, a faint moan brushes past my ears. Before I can pinpoint its origin, pain erupts in my left shoulder—two silent, swift hits that force my gun to slip from my grasp. The bullets, likely dispatched from a superior-grade silencer, scorch through my flesh like hot metal. I’m thankful none struck my heart, likely his intended target.
However, the impact is from behind me. That means…
Fuck! Someone must’ve hidden her somewhere along those dark stairs, and I marched right past them!
I flatten myself behind a pile of bricks. The gunman had shot me through the trapdoor; he won’t hit me here, not for now. I peek sideways. All remains silent. Could there be another passage? A concealed void?
My left shoulder is mangled, but I refuse to let injury slow me down. I crawl forward, approaching the trapdoor. Even though I’m on higher ground, my enemy has the advantage of darkness and a space riddled with hidden recesses. It’s a massive risk, but I must save Georgia-May, whatever it takes.
Hugging the ground, I press my ear to the concrete. The hollowness beneath reveals the sound of footsteps as more than one person moves away from the entryway.
The noises grow clearer as I descend back into the chamber. I spot movements at the far end, heading toward the sinkhole where I first entered. Behind a wall, a scuffle breaks out, the light flickering erratically.
I prepare to engage. My Glock feels alien in my right hand, as awkward as writing with the wrong hand, but a minor shift in dexterity won’t stop me from taking down that bastard. If necessary, I’d tear him away with my teeth!
As I turn to the other side of the wall, I am met with my adversary, fully prepared for our confrontation. He holds Georgia-May hostage, using her as a shield. The flashlight knocked from his hand during Georgia-May’s struggle casts an uneven light across the dim space.
“Let her go!” I bellow.
“Mr. Blake,” the captor sneers condescendingly. He seems oddly familiar with me, perhaps the elusive hooded man, Bertram’s chief operative. His appearance is deceptively ordinary, so much so that he’d blend into any crowd, entirely unremarkable and easily overlooked.
“Blake, just go!” Georgia-May pleads.
“She’s tough, this one,” the man remarks. “Unlike her dead boyfriend, she’s not a screamer. I was hoping she’d lure you in, but hey, there’s always another way. And here we are. My reinforcements are en route, Mr. Blake. Flee now, or you won’t make it out.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Georgia-May says. “Go, Coco needs you.”
Her tone reveals a familiarity I know all too well. She’s somehow retaliating. Even as she’s being dragged backward, her right arm covertly maneuvers behind her captor.
“Let. Her. Go!” I demand again, my grip firm on the gun in my right hand while my wounded left throbs. Proof that I’m still fighting, still breathing, and utterly unstoppable.
“Go ahead, shoot,” the man mocks. “I won’t kill her, Mr. Blake. But there’s a nine in ten chance that you will. Most likely a shot to her head. Sound familiar?”
I breathe heavily. This bastard knows more about me than I thought. And he’s right. The odds are brutally against me. The poor lighting, Georgia-May’s precarious position, and my untrained hand gripping the weapon. The risk of hitting her far outweighs any hope of a precise shot.
“Blake, listen to me!” Georgia-May shouts. “Take care of Coco.”
I study her. The only thing my adversary can do now is shoot me, but I can withstand any bullets he throws at me. All that matters is buying Georgia-May the crucial seconds she needs to execute whatever plan she’s concocting.
“Remember what she says when she wants a bath?” Behind her plea, there’s something in the back of the man’s jeans that she’s trying to retrieve.
Duck!
Crouching down, I startle the hooded man into firing his weapon. As I roll away, a bullet zips past me.
No more acting weak. Georgia-May’s fist, clutching something solid, connects with the man’s face with a sickening thud. The impact is brutal, almost flooring him. In a fluid motion, she ducks, breaking free from his grasp and leaving him exposed—his face contorted with both shock and determination to target me again.
That’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. Trusting my less dominant hand, I take the shot, and the man crumbles to the ground.
But then, so do I. The surge of adrenaline wanes, and the loss of blood overwhelms me. But through the haze, I know Georgia-May is safe.
She rushes to my side, her voice a beacon. “Blake!”
I gaze upward at her towering silhouette. The flashlight beam is distant and dim, yet even in the absence of its glow or the slightest moonbeam, I can see her beautiful face.
I draw Georgia-May close, and our mouths meet in a kiss charged with the raw intensity of survival and the relief of victory.
“Baby, are you hurt?” I ask urgently.
Brushing off my hand from her bleeding forehead, she responds, “I’m okay, but you’re not!”
Horror widens her eyes as she examines me. She tears her sleeve to craft a bandage for me. As she does, she winces with each shift, a grimace fleeting across her features as she tries to mask her discomfort.
“Tell me if you’re hurt,” I insist, needing to understand her condition.
After a pause and a heavy sigh, she confesses, “He punched me earlier when I resisted.”
At her foot, a piece of metal catches the sporadic flicker of the flashlight. Brass knuckles. My eyes flare in disbelief. Her captor had attacked her with those? Clearly, Georgia-May had managed to seize them and use his own cruel weapon against him, turning the tide with a dose of his vicious tactics.
“I’m fine, probably just a few bruises,” she assures me. She turns and shines the light on the lifeless body of her captor. “His name was Hark—probably a nickname. He was the hooded man tracking us. Bertram’s son, or so he claimed. I’m convinced he was an illegitimate attempt to carry on the Bertram name.”
Shaking my head, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until she rests against me. I don’t care who he was. All that matters is her safety.
How my life has changed. I am far removed from the man who once stood in front of a ruthless investor, taking a bullet for him in a place where I didn’t even belong. I was ready for my life to end, as if my blood meant nothing—colorless like my world. But now, feeling her breath against my chest, I realize how desperately I want to live. She’s the essence of my existence. The color of my blood is her. She is a part of me, inseparable and irreplaceable.
A ruckus erupts above ground, undoubtedly the reinforcements the hooded man mentioned. But among the chaos, I catch a familiar voice—my boss, my sidekick for the night, and my brother, Clayton—alongside the authoritative shout of ‘LAPD!’
“Where’s Bertram?” I ask, turning to Georgia-May in the hope of a clue.
“He’s not here,” she responds.
“They’ve destroyed all the equipment,” I add grimly. “No doubt, he’ll deny any involvement.”
Georgia-May’s expression turns steely, her voice a low murmur of resolve. “It may not matter. We’ll get him another way.”
Right now, as the reality of our ordeal sinks in, my focus shifts. I’m not concerned with what comes next. For the first time in what feels like forever, all I want is to embrace her. Here, at this moment, nothing else matters but the two of us together.