Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“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.