Chapter 27
Lincoln
I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard my fucking knuckles ache, eyes fixed on the dimly lit road stretching toward Saint Pierce’s shipping port.
Dean rides shotgun, scanning the horizon with the same anxious tension that twists my stomach into knots.
Behind us, three SUVs loaded with Maddox Security men follow, headlights cutting through the darkness.
The sound of the tires on pavement seems unnaturally loud in my ears, even over the chatter coming from the comms units we’ve distributed.
“Everyone confirm comms,” Dean says, voice low but carrying authority. One by one, each driver checks in. My own earpiece crackles with the affirmatives. Good. We’ll need all the coordination we can get tonight.
We got the tip less than an hour ago—a security camera from a nearby gas station caught the black van carrying Isabel.
Another angle from a city traffic cam showed it headed for the Saint Pierce docks.
That was all we needed to mobilize. The moment we realized Lazarus Delgado could be shipping them abroad, everything slid into hyperdrive. My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since.
Dean exhales heavily, running a hand through his cropped hair. “Lazarus is out of his mind,” he mutters, almost to himself. “If he thinks he’ll get away with taking Sophia and my sister overseas, he’s going to learn otherwise tonight.”
“He’s going to learn real quick,” I say through gritted teeth, my stomach aflame with worry. The memory of hearing Isabel’s voice last time I spoke to her—soft, full of hope—cuts me to the core. She has to be alive. She just has to.
The port lights come into view around a wide curve, revealing a spiderweb of high fences, shipping cranes, and endless rows of looming containers stacked like color-coded tombstones.
The place is half-illuminated by industrial lamps that cast long shadows across the asphalt.
My grip on the wheel tightens further, breath catching.
One of those containers could be holding Isabel and Sophia, terrified and alone.
“That gate up ahead,” Dean says, pointing. “We’ll have to get through.”
We roll up to a security checkpoint—mostly unmanned at this hour, except for a single guard in a booth.
Dean’s men flash fake credentials we’ve prepared, claiming an emergency cargo inspection.
The guard looks uncertain for a moment, but with the mention of police involvement, he lifts the barrier. Our convoy slips into the port.
I force air into my lungs, trying to steady my pulse.
“Teams One and Two,” Dean says into his comm.
“Fan out on the west side, check for that black van or Lazarus’s men.
Teams Three and Four on me and Lincoln—we’ll head south.
” Affirmatives crackle back, and the SUVs split off.
I crane my neck to see if there’s any sign of movement behind the towering stacks of shipping crates.
We wind through row after row of containers, the faint stench of salt air mingling with gasoline fumes.
It’s eerily quiet out here, except for the distant grind of machinery and the crash of waves against the dock.
Every second feels like an eternity. My mind conjures images of Isabel locked away, battered or worse.
I shove them down, focusing on the mission.
Dean’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then swears under his breath. “We’ve got Saint Pierce PD on standby, ready to move when we call them. Lazarus won’t know what hit ‘em.”
I clench my jaw. “We’ll beat him at his own game.”
We follow the narrow service road, headlights off now to keep a low profile. Dean instructs his men to do the same. The only illumination comes from occasional floodlights overhead. I squint through the gloom, searching for any silhouette that might be Lazarus’s men.
Finally, we spot movement—a cluster of figures huddled near a forklift. As we pull closer, I make out the flicker of something metallic: firearms. My pulse kicks. We kill the engine, and our men quietly spill out of the vehicles. Dean and I exchange a glance—no turning back now.
He signals me to circle around the containers on the left while he goes right, a pincer move. I nod, adrenaline scorching through my veins, and slip my handgun from its holster. My heart drums a furious beat. Isabel. Sophia. That’s all that matters.
I move between towering crates, stepping carefully to avoid making noise on the gravel. Each container is labeled with shipping codes, but they blur in my vision as I focus on the armed men up ahead. I flatten myself against a metal wall, listening.
“He wants everything loaded by midnight,” one of them says. “No delays.”
A second voice answers in a harsh whisper. “Yeah, well, Morris is waiting on Lazarus’s signal. Where the hell is that bastard, anyway?”
My mind flashes with relief—this is definitely the right place. I raise my comm unit to my lips and speak softly. “Spotted hostiles near forklift station. Four men, heavily armed. Possibly more inside the container rows. Standing by for your go, Dean.”
A beat later, Dean’s voice crackles back. “Got a line of sight on them from the east. On my mark… three, two, one.”
Gunfire erupts. For a heartbeat, my stomach drops—I was braced for stealth, but Dean evidently decided on a direct assault.
I whip around the corner, weapon raised, and see one of Lazarus’s men sprawled on the ground, courtesy of a shot from Dean’s direction.
Another returns fire, muzzle flashing in the darkness.
Bullets ricochet off the forklift with metallic pings.
My heart leaps into my throat, but I keep moving, crouched low.
I spot a man fumbling for cover behind a half-open container door. I center my sights on him, exhale, and squeeze the trigger. He goes down with a grunt. The acrid smell of gunpowder stings my nostrils. The rest of our men sprint in, pinning the others down with a barrage of covering fire.
Amid the chaos, someone yells, “They’re flanking us!” Another round of gunshots rings out, echoes rolling across the shipping yard. My mind fixates on pushing forward—time is precious. If Lazarus and Morris realize we’re here, they might accelerate their plan to move the container holding Isabel.
I dash past the forklift, scanning the shadows for more hostiles.
Another man darts out from behind a crate, raising his weapon.
A bark of fear leaves my throat, but I manage to pull the trigger first. He collapses, gun clattering on the ground.
No regrets, I tell myself. Not when Isabel’s life hangs in the balance.
Dean’s men surge in from the right, corralling any survivors. “Clear!” one shouts. “This area’s clear.”
I hurry over to Dean, who stands near a wall, pressing a hand to his shoulder where a bullet graze has torn his suit. Blood seeps through his fingers, but he barely acknowledges it. “I’m fine,” he growls when I try to check. “We need to find the container. They must be deeper in.”
We regroup, scanning the labyrinth of crates and containers.
The containers are stacked four or five high, rows turning into aisles that stretch toward the water.
I glance at a battered sign that points to Terminal 3—somewhere near the cargo ships.
My gut churns. “If they’re planning to load the container onto a ship, they’d head that way,” I say, gesturing to the dock lights beyond.
Dean nods, rallying the men. “Teams, we move toward Terminal 3. Keep eyes peeled for any sign of Lazarus or Morris.” The men confirm, fanning out in a loose formation.
As we move, the staccato crack of gunfire shatters the air again, this time from somewhere off to our left.
Shouts ring out. The local police. My earpiece crackles to life with a frantic voice from one of our other squads, “Cops are here, mixing it up with Delgado’s men.
It’s turning into a firefight near the container cranes. ”
Dean curses under his breath. “We can’t let them cart away the container in the chaos. Keep your eyes open for any sign of a black van, or any container the men are guarding. That’s our priority.”
I rush forward, weaving between crates. The smell of sea salt intensifies, and I catch a glimpse of water shimmering under floodlights in the distance.
My boots crunch on gravel, breath ragged with exertion.
We pass a row of stacked containers, each with shipping labels from around the world.
My heart seizes at the thought that Isabel could be trapped in one of these steel tombs, mere minutes from being shipped overseas.
Then I see it: a cluster of men near a forklift, eyes darting around nervously. They’re obviously trying to keep low. Next to them, a container stands partially open. Their heads snap up when we approach. One man points, shouting, “They’re here!”
Gunfire erupts again. I hit the deck, hugging the ground as bullets zing overhead. Dean dives behind a crate to my left, returning fire. Sparks fly when rounds hit steel. My ears ring. Adrenaline surges, and I grit my teeth, firing a burst that forces two men to scatter.
A flash of movement draws my attention to the corner of that partially open container—Morris steps out, face twisted with rage. He squeezes off a volley of shots that clang against the container’s walls. My chest tightens with fury. He’s the one who orchestrated Isabel’s kidnapping.
I scramble behind a stack of pallets, reloading with shaking hands. “Morris is here!” I shout into the comm. Dean acknowledges with a terse “On it,” from somewhere behind me. Another thunder of gunfire, and I see one of Morris’s men go down.
Morris ducks behind the forklift, scanning for a path out. Then, as I peep around the pallets, he locks eyes with me. I feel a visceral jolt of hatred. He aims, firing a shot that whistles past my ear. I return fire, but he’s already darting deeper into the rows of containers.