Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(60)

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.

“You’re my nephew, Pedro, but I will not hesitate to make an example of you.” Miguel comes dangerously closer.

I find my head shaking no. He’s just a child, please!

But Miguel doesn’t care for children, or women, or humanity. He cares for greed and power.

Just as the last of the tape is ripped away from my mouth, the sound of the firing gun rockets deafeningly against the steel walls, and Pedro falls dead at my feet.





Chapter Fifteen



Ryder





I stand next to the motorcycle at the designated spot when a gunshot rips through my senses.

“Where is she?” I cry, tension and adrenaline pulsing through my veins in equal amounts.

When he doesn’t respond I shout, “BRIGGS!?”

“Water, Ryder . . . the transmitter is coming from off the lower east dock, about twenty-five feet from shoreline.”

Without any thought for my own safety, my muscles jolt into action, and I run full-force towards the edge of the shipping yard.

The warehouse-like storage facility is set up with varying levels of rooftops and tractor-trailer storage bins—some stacked on top of one another at irregular heights. I sprint over the concrete floor and vault myself from the concrete railing down a five foot drop to the first set of scaffolding that’s supporting the massive crane. My hands reach, then cling to the cool, smooth metal pipe. Swinging seamlessly, I land atop a section of warehouse roofing and quickly regain my stride.

Thirty feet ahead is another set of freight containers. I leap, catch air and land solidly—my boots making full contact—before I drive ahead and spring again, ten feet, onto the next one.

“Is she moving?” I yell through the comm.

“No.”

Bullets come splaying at me from out of nowhere, ricocheting against the metal and creating sparks from their high velocity friction.

Another gun fires and immediately the attack against me halts.

Jones.

Back on the secure ground level, I lift my knees and race against time—against the taunting nightmarish thoughts that pierce through my very soul.

As if the one thing that stands between Farrington’s life and death is me alone.

My eyes first hit the white Escalade—all the doors of the vehicle gape open wide.

The ridged and studded steel of shipping crate number six smells peculiarly of lead and blood. Two men lay motionless at the dark mouth of the doorway, their heads crushed in, with rivers of crimson crawling towards the sea. Beside them, a discarded shovel.

My eyes search the inside of the container and find a large man spread out among scraps of cut silver duct tape. He wasn’t hit with a shovel, he was shot.

“Ryder, talk to me.” Briggs’s trebled tone sounds off in my head.

What the hell happened? A rival gang? There’s nobody here!

“Ryder!” he presses.

The cold unyielding concrete gives no clues.

I race out onto the industrial dock platform—there’s no boat here, no container, no equipment—just water lapping at the edge of the concrete like evil sprites.

“RACHEL!” I scream. The agonized cry echoes through the shipyard and broadcasts over the river’s surface.

With frantic and desperate motions, as if it’s on fire, I begin to tear off my shirt to get to the Kevlar beneath. The water here at the shallowest point could be anywhere between thirty and fifty feet deep. I can submerge faster with the added weight of the Kevlar vest, then once I recover her, I’ll be able to strip it off to resurface quickly without fumbling with the shirt.

I position myself to jump.



Rachel





“RYDER!” My voice breaks at the edge of the scream.

Miguel holds me in front of him as a human shield. The icy steel of the gun barrel presses sharply against my head. He shifts us out of the shadows and under the luminance of a yellowed light.

When Ryder turns, his eyes and expression are wild and edgy. He looks as explosive as a jittery grenade that has lost its pin and is ready to detonate. Without hesitation, he lifts his pistol, elbows bent, and takes several steps towards us, unafraid, before his body stands rigid.

“I warned you.” Ryder’s voice quakes with an impending volcanic eruption. “Now let her go.”

“You demand of me, but I am the one holding what you want,” Miguel yells. His spittle strikes my cheek and I can’t keep myself from trembling. “I see your FBI men here, so there’s no escape for me now. I should take away from you the way you have taken away from me!” In his animalistic fury, Miguel shoves the barrel with vehemence, deeper into my temple, the rounded edge grinding against my skin and skull, forcing my head to the side.