“Immediately!” I’d given him a heads up a few hours ago to stay close. “She was being held in a white Ford Escalade by Miguel and I don’t know how many others. And I’m coming in hot on a Ducati.” After relaying the section of the shipyard where Jones will find us, I hang up and tear down the street.
“Where is she, Briggs?” I’m grateful for the ear comm.
“They’re on Patterson Drive headed towards Algiers.”
“Excellent. That’s where Mason’s shipyard is located.” I’m almost relieved to hear it. “Now get me there quicker.”
“Cross over the river on 90, right on Powder then cut over from MacArthur.”
My grip controls the bike’s speed and I have her up at 110 as I slice through the humid air that’s created a blanket of mist over the bridge.
“Bryan?”
“Ambulance got him. He’ll make it. Now hurry up and get this son of a bitch!”
Racing through the back streets of Algiers, past wandering partiers, prostitutes and pushers, I count my breaths.
Rachel
The shipyard seems eerily otherworldly in the shroud of mist that’s beginning to roll in off the river, threatening to swallow the docked ships. White and yellowish lights burn steady, sharp against the tall industrial cranes and latticed scaffolding. Despite being lit up, the shipyard appears abandoned and ghostly.
The high speed of the SUV causes the tires to groan over the blacktop as it swerves around the corner and into the lower secondary lot.
This is not where Ryder told them to meet him.
“Here,” Miguel says, eyeing the metal containers lined up neatly under the crane. He turns his wrist to check his watch. “Put her in the midnight shipment, container number six,” he instructs and gives the man a fistful of keys.
Desperation claws at my mind like the hungry monster under the stairs.
“No . . . NO!” Every part of me knows that if they get me into that container, I’m never coming out again.
They pull me from the car. Even with my arms bound, my feet and legs are free. Breaking my right foot from the man’s grasp, I kick as hard as I can. My sneaker connects with his nose.
“Fucking bitch!” he cusses, but there’s no blood and no cracking sound. I only succeeded in grazing it and pissing him off.
Before he has a chance secure me, though, I bring my toe up under his chin with force.
That got him good. He wails and drops my other leg, and I fall heavily to the ground. I look up just in time to see him spit out a chunk of his bloody tongue.
Rushing to get my feet underneath me, I pitch forward in a frantic attempt to run. Before I can make it a stride, the other guy, who’d let go of my torso in surprise, tackles me to the ground and climbs on top of me.
“You’re feisty. Once I kill your boyfriend I’ll come back for you.” I read his threat loud and clear.
“Get her in the fucking container!” Miguel growls from the car. “And tape her mouth shut.”
The driver gets out hurriedly with the roll of tape they used to bind my arms to my torso, and he unceremoniously wraps it around my face—mouth, neck and hair. After he’s finished with that, he cinches a couple yards of the tape around my ankles.
The man holding me down yanks me back to my feet. I plead with him, my eyes wide. Not this, please, not this!
He considers me only a moment before curling his fingers around the chain at my throat—the one holding the lucky clover Ryder gave me—and snaps it off with a deft move.
“My girlfriend will like this.” He smiles at his cleverness while he admires the charm. “You certainly won’t need it anymore.”
Consumed by fear—that charm was my last lifeline—I contort and thrash my body in a last ditch violent attempt to somehow survive this.
Parading with me thrown over his shoulder, the man stops at the crate while the driver selects the key and opens the lock.
He and the driver drop my body against the cruel metal floor of the shipping container. Uselessly, I try to make my voice heard beneath the tape and inch towards the still open door. They laugh and stride back towards the opening.
I look on in horror—Ryder won’t know they’re going to ambush him. He’ll step out of the shadows and they’ll cut him down before he even knows they’re there. Maybe they’ll tell him my fate to torture him first.
My sight blurs with tears before the sound of striking metal reverberates inside the container, along with a loud thud.
I blink to find Pedro standing over Miguel’s men with a shovel. They lay on the ground, gurgling in their own blood.
I don’t understand. Pedro is one of Miguel’s men—the childlike man who fed and sang to me—and even though he was kind to me, he follows orders—right?
What the hell is happening?
He comes closer to me before sliding onto his knees and using a box cutter to rip at the thick tape securing me.
“Don’t do it, Pedro. You’ll force me to kill you.” Miguel, who warns in Spanish now, stands at the entrance of the container, his pistol trained on Pedro.
“She is my friend,” Pedro replies. “I won’t let you hurt her anymore.”
Frantically, my eyes search like a pendulum between the two.