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)
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.