Page 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.
I grit my teeth. I have to stop him. I vault over the pallets, ignoring Dean’s shouts for me to hold position, and chase Morris. My lungs burn with every step as I pummel the ground. We wind through a corridor of steel boxes, the lights overhead flickering on and off, turning the chase into a surreal dance of darkness and fluorescent glow.
Morris glances back, gun drawn, and tries to get a shot off at me. I duck behind a container, heart hammering. “You won’t stop this,” he snarls, voice echoing in the tight space. “I’m going to see Dean suffer for what he did.”
“You took the wrong people!” I holler back, stepping out and firing a round. The bullet ricochets off a corner as Morris ducks away, cursing.
He sprints forward, heading for another forklift. I sense the open space beyond must be near the docks. The thunderous noise of police sirens reaches my ears now, a shriek that adds to the cacophony. Lights flash in the distance—blue and red. The cops are closing in, and with them, more gunshots. The entire port is a warzone.
Morris attempts to climb onto the forklift, maybe to drive it away or maneuver a container. He fumbles with the controls. I seize my chance, raising my gun and stepping closer, finger trembling on the trigger. “Don’t move!” I yell.
He spins, firing wildly. I flatten myself behind a steel pillar, bullets cracking against metal. My ears ring. Then I hear a savage hiss of air, and the forklift lurches, rolling a few feet before stalling. Morris curses, evidently failing to operate it properly.
I push off the pillar, circling around. My chest aches with every pant of breath. In the gloom, I spot a group of men rushing around a container that sits on a flatbed truck, presumably about to be hauled to a cargo ship. That must be it. The men are shouting, trying to coordinate or flee, I can’t tell which. Another flurry of gunfire indicates the police or Dean’s men have them pinned.
Morris leaps off the forklift, spinning around to face me. His eyes flash with desperate rage. “You think you can save her?” he sneers. “You’re already too late.”
I fire a shot that pings off the ground near his foot. “Where are they?” I demand, choking on emotion. “Where’s Isabel?”
He smirks, backing away slowly. “Fuck you. Lazarus has other plans?—”
A deafening crack interrupts him. A bullet tears past, fired from somewhere behind me, and Morris throws himself down, scrambling behind a crate. I dash forward, determined to corner him. But then I hear a new round of gunfire, closer, from the direction of a green container.
“Lincoln!” a voice calls. Dean’s voice, coming through my earpiece. “We’re at the container. Hurry, I think it’s them. Shots fired inside or near it.”
My blood runs cold. Shots fired near the container holding Isabel. Without a second thought, I pivot away from Morris, ignoring his furious shout. My boots pound the asphalt, lungs burning. Figures surge around me—cops, security men, more of Lazarus’s goons. Everything’s chaos. I duck behind another forklift, weaving past a policeman yelling at me to get down.
Finally, I spot Dean’s silhouette near the green container, muzzle flash illuminating his stance as he exchanges shots with a cluster of men. A forklift with cargo spears sits abandoned, smoke drifting from its engine. My heart nearly stops—this has to be where they’re holding Isabel. Sophia, too, hopefully. The men attempt to hold off Dean, but he dispatches two quickly. Another tries to run, only to be tackled by one of Dean’s men.
“Dean!” I shout, sliding to a stop next to him, breath ragged. “Is she?—?”
He jabs a thumb toward the container door, which stands partially open. “In there, I think,” he gasps, face drawn with worry. “Morris’s men retreated inside. Let’s move!”
Together, we rush the container. Bullets whiz past from a final holdout on the opposite side, but Dean’s men lay down covering fire, forcing them to duck. I press my back to the container’s steel wall, inching toward the opening. My heart rams against my ribs. Isabel, I chant silently. Be okay, be okay.
We pivot around the door frame, weapons raised. Inside, it’s dimly lit by a few overhead lamps and the harsh glow of an open exit on the far side. I see a welded cage area in the center. My throat tightens. A figure stands near the cage, brandishing a handgun, hair disheveled—Morris. He must’ve slipped in here through a side route.
And beyond him, two shadows. My breath catches. Isabel and Sophia. They look battered, clothes torn. I see the faint glint of metal at Isabel’s feet—a piece of pipe or something. My heart leaps with relief and terror all at once.
Morris notices me. He wheels around, aiming at the women. “Stay back!” he snarls, stepping closer to them. I see the madness in his eyes, the willingness to do anything.
“Morris, it’s over,” I say, voice rough. “We have men everywhere, the police are here. Drop the gun.”
He laughs, a cracked, desperate sound, flicking his gaze between me and the women. “Not until I’ve made Dean pay. This is the price for messing with Lazarus Delgado’s family.”
I inch forward, keeping my weapon trained. Dean flanks me, gun raised as well. “Morris, you can still walk out of this alive if you let them go,” Dean says, voice icy. “Or you can face me with a bullet in your skull.”
But Morris is too unhinged to listen. He lifts his pistol toward Sophia, who’s pressed against the cage bars, eyes wide with fear. My stomach lurches. No. I can’t let him pull that trigger.
Just then, Isabel darts forward, surprising all of us. She lunges with the pipe—maybe it’s a loose bar from the cage—swinging it at Morris’s wrist. He yells, recoiling. The shot he fires goes wild, ricocheting off the container wall. Sparks rain down.
Sophia uses that moment to slam her shoulder into Morris, toppling him. He staggers, face twisted with rage. He tries to level his gun again, but Isabel bashes his forearm a second time. The weapon skitters across the floor, out of reach. Furious, Morris lunges for her, but Sophia grabs his arm, twisting him around. Together, the two women wrestle him to the ground in a flurry of motion.
I leap in, adrenaline roaring. My hands clamp onto Morris’s shoulders, yanking him away from them. He snarls, thrashing, but I slam him face-first against the metal floor, my knee on his back. “Enough!” I growl. He heaves and spits curses, but I keep him pinned.
Isabel scrambles backward, breath ragged, tears streaking her face. I catch her gaze for an instant. Relief and exhaustion war across her features. Sophia crouches next to her, eyes brimming with tears.
Dean rushes up behind me, panting, gun drawn. He sees Sophia, sees her battered state, and a choked sound leaves his throat. He nearly trips over in his haste to get to her. “Soph,” he gasps, dropping to his knees beside her. She collapses into his arms, sobbing. He holds her, face etched with raw emotion. “I’m here, I’ve got you,” he breathes.
Morris struggles under my weight, but my hold doesn’t waver. “They’ll kill you for this,” he rasps, voice muffled against the floor. “Lazarus?—”
“Lazarus is done,” I snap, though I’m not sure if that’s fully true. But in this moment, I need the bastard in front of me to understand I’m not letting him slip away. “We got the police. Your men are down, you lost.”
He curses, thrashing, but I keep him pinned until two uniformed cops burst in, guns raised. They rush over, hooking handcuffs around his wrists while I step off. My shoulders sag with relief.
My attention snaps to Isabel. She’s shaking, eyes glistening. I rush over, gently lifting her chin to check for injuries. My heart cracks at the bruises and the fear in her eyes. “Iz,” I whisper, voice thick, “you’re safe now.”
She lets out a ragged sob, flinging her arms around me. The tension in my chest breaks. I bury my face in her hair, cradling her trembling form against me. Her warmth, the smell of sweat and tears—every second is a confirmation that she’s alive, that we made it in time.
“I was so scared,” she mumbles into my shoulder. “He… Lazarus… they said they’d ship us abroad—” Another sob wracks her. “I thought you’d never find us.”
I press my lips to her temple, breathing in the reality of her presence. “I promised I’d protect you,” I rasp. My own tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
She just clings to me, crying softly. Over her head, I see Sophia clutched in Dean’s arms, tears flowing from both of them. Morris is dragged away by the police, cursing. More officers flood the container, guns drawn, while Dean’s security men hold position outside, ensuring no one else from Lazarus’s crew tries anything.
I close my eyes, relief flooding me so powerfully my legs threaten to give out. Isabel is safe. Sophia is safe. All that’s left is to finish cleaning up this nightmare. But for now, I can only hold Isabel, letting the swirling chaos of police and paramedics swirl around us. Her sobs subside into ragged breathing, and she pulls back, teary eyes searching mine.
“You’re hurt,” she says, noticing a cut on my cheek or the bruises forming on my arms. I hadn’t even realized.
I manage a shaky grin. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” More than anything, I want to whisk her away from this hellhole, find a quiet place where she can rest. But first, we endure the final aftermath—statements for the police, quick checks by paramedics. We watch as they haul Morris off in cuffs, while other cops and security men track down any remaining hostiles. And we find Lazarus.
Dean carries Sophia out, his expression carved with sorrow and relief. I keep an arm around Isabel, guiding her gently into the fresh night air. The horizon lightens with the approach of dawn, the ocean breeze carrying away some of the stench of gunfire and sweat. We stand there, battered but alive, under the glow of flashing emergency lights.
For a brief moment, Isabel’s gaze meets mine again, silent gratitude and love shining through her exhaustion. I wrap her in an embrace, pressing my lips to her hair. She sighs, nestling against me like she can’t quite believe this ordeal is over.
As paramedics hustle to check them, to treat their bruises and dehydration, I stand guard, scanning the docks for any sign of Lazarus Delgado. If he’s here, the police or Dean’s men will flush him out. If not, we’ll hunt him down another day. Right now, my focus is on Isabel. She’s trembling under the thin blanket a medic drapes around her shoulders.
We lock eyes one more time, the weight of everything we’ve endured sitting between us. I brush a stray tear from her cheek, letting her see the promise in my gaze: I’ll never let anyone take you from me again.
And in the midst of the chaos, sirens wailing and sunrise creeping over the horizon, I realize that promise isn’t just for the mission. It’s for us. Because somewhere along the line, this became about more than just duty. It became about love—and I’m not letting go.