CHAPTER 24 #2
I turn to Gemma. She is staring out the window at the passing headlights, her jaw clenched tight.
"Twenty men," she whispers, having heard my side of the conversation.
"It doesn't matter if it’s two hundred," I say, reaching across the seat and taking her hand. Her fingers are freezing. "I will get her out."
She turns her head to look at me. The fear in her eyes is entirely for her friend, not for herself.
"I know," she says softly.
We reach the Isle of Dogs an hour later. The area is a bleak, industrial wasteland of old warehouses and rusting cranes, bordered by the dark, churning water of the River Thames. A light, freezing rain has begun to fall, slicking the cobblestone streets.
The driver pulls the SUV into a narrow alleyway about a quarter-mile from the shipping yard and cuts the engine.
"Wait here," the driver says, his heavy Cockney accent breaking his silence for the first time. "I’ll keep the engine warm."
I grab the submachine gun from the duffel bag, attaching the sling across my chest. I pull a black tactical beanie over my head to break up the silhouette of my face in the dark.
I look at Gemma.
"You stay in the car," I tell her, my voice leaving no room for negotiation this time. "The driver is armed. If I do not return in forty-five minutes, he has orders to take you to a safe house in Mayfair."
"Callum—"
"Forty-five minutes, Gemma." I lean across the seat, pressing a hard, fast kiss to her mouth. It tastes like rain and adrenaline. "Stay in the car."
I open the door and step out into the freezing rain.
I don't look back. If I look back, I will hesitate.
I move down the alley, melting into the shadows of the brick buildings. The rain is a tactical advantage. It muffles the sound of my footsteps and degrades the visibility of their thermal optics.
I reach the edge of the shipping yard.
A high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounds the perimeter. I don't try to climb it. I find a section where the rust has eaten through the metal links near the ground, pull the wire back, and slide underneath.
I am inside the maze.
Massive, corrugated steel shipping containers tower above me, forming narrow, dark corridors that smell of rust, salt water, and decaying garbage.
I move silently, my submachine gun raised to my shoulder.
Ben was right. There are patrols.
I spot the first two men walking down a corridor of red containers fifty yards ahead. They are wearing dark rain gear, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. They are talking, their voices muffled by the rain.
I slip behind a blue container, letting them pass.
I don't engage. My objective is the hostage, not a body count. If I start dropping bodies on the perimeter, they will execute Pippa before I can find her.
I navigate deeper into the yard, moving toward the center where the thermal signatures were clustered.
The corridors of steel open up into a small, cleared square.
In the center of the square sits a single, isolated gray shipping container. The heavy metal doors are closed, secured by a massive digital padlock.
Four men are standing guard around the container. They are highly alert, their weapons raised, scanning the shadows.
I crouch behind a stack of wooden pallets, observing the layout.
Four men. Open ground. No cover between my position and the container.
I cannot take them all silently. If I shoot, the noise will alert the rest of the camp.
I need a distraction.
I reach into my tactical vest, pulling out a small, compact flashbang grenade Ben’s supplier included in the duffel bag. It won't kill anyone, but it will blind and deafen them for exactly six seconds.
Six seconds is a lifetime.
I pull the pin.
I wait for a heavy gust of wind to mask the sound of my movement, then hurl the grenade over the pallets, directly into the center of the four guards.
"Grenade!" one of them shouts, his voice cracking with panic.
BANG.
The explosion of white light and concussive sound is blinding even from behind cover.
I don't wait for the light to fade.
I step out from behind the pallets, raising the submachine gun.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Four suppressed shots. Four bodies hitting the wet concrete.
I sprint across the open square, my boots splashing in the puddles, and reach the gray shipping container. I grab the heavy digital padlock. It’s military-grade. I can't shoot it off without risking a ricochet.
I pull the encrypted bypass key from my vest—the same one I used in the Hamptons—and jam it into the electronic port on the bottom of the lock.
Three agonizing seconds pass.
The light on the lock flashes green. The heavy metal shackle pops open.
I rip the lock off, grab the rusted iron handle, and haul the heavy container door open.
The inside of the container is pitch black. It smells like stale sweat and fear.
"Pippa?" I call out, keeping my weapon raised, stepping into the dark.
A sharp, blinding light suddenly floods the container from above.
I freeze, my eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden glare of industrial halogen lamps mounted to the ceiling of the metal box.
The container is empty.
There is no hostage. There is no chair. There is just a bare metal floor.
A cold, heavy sense of absolute dread drops into my stomach.
It’s a trap.
Before I can turn around, the heavy steel doors of the shipping container slam shut behind me with a deafening, metallic crash. The electronic lock engages from the outside.
I am sealed in a steel box.
"Well, well," a voice echoes through a small speaker mounted in the corner of the ceiling. The voice is smooth, British, and dripping with arrogant amusement. "The infamous Callum Reed. I must admit, I expected you to be a bit harder to catch."
I raise the submachine gun, aiming at the speaker, my breathing perfectly controlled despite the trap.
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice cold.
"I am the man you stole four billion dollars from," the voice replies. "And while you are sitting in my box, Mr. Reed, my men are currently paying a visit to the black SUV parked in the alleyway."
The blood freezes in my veins.
"Gemma," I whisper.
"Yes," the voice says cheerfully. "Let’s see if she’s as cooperative when you aren't around to protect her."