Page 61 of Taking What's Mine

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 voicefrom 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.”

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