Page 60 of Taking What's Mine

I rub my zip-tied wrists against the cage bars, testing if friction can wear them down. The plastic stings against my skin, but I keep at it, fueled by the slightest chance that maybe we can free ourselves. Meanwhile, Sophia tries to shift her position for comfort, wincing at the bruises on her thighs and arms. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out at the injustice.

Time crawls. The container’s heat intensifies, each breath more labored. We’re both dehydrated, fear gnawing at our insides. Sophia falls into an exhausted stupor for a while, head lolling against my shoulder, but I can’t sleep—my nerves remain too frayed.

Eventually, the container door creaks open again, and my heart leaps with dread, imagining a final push to load us onto a ship. But it’s just one of Morris’s men—alone—tossing a couple of water bottles onto the floor near the cage. Neither of us can pick them up with our hands bound, but maybe we can maneuver them if we’re careful. The man sneers, unimpressed by our plight, then leaves as quickly as he arrived.

We manage to tip one bottle with our feet, rolling it enough that I can press the opening to my lips, sipping water in messy gulps. Sophia does the same. It’s humiliating, doing it like animals, but we have no choice.

The heavy hush returns. Outside, the dull clang of metal on metal suggests forklift trucks or cranes moving cargo around. The occasional distant shout drifts in, men working on the docks. My skin crawls with the knowledge that we’re so close to civilization—there are probably people walking around out there, oblivious to the hell inside this container.

“We’ll get out of this,” I whisper, though the quiver in my voice betrays my own doubts.

She nods. “I know we will.”

“I’ll keep trying to see if I can wear these ties down. Maybe break them,” I breathe, tears pricking my own eyes. “It’s not working well, but who knows, crazier things have happened.”

Sophia glances around and then spots a jagged piece of metal closer to her than me. “I’ll try this.” She rubs her zip ties against the metal.

Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into an eternity of suffocating dread. The inevitability of a ship departure weighs on my mind, the horrifying reality of what Lazarus Delgado plans for us looming like a black storm cloud.

Yet in the midst of that despair, I cling to one shining thread: Lincoln and Dean. I replay every memory of their bravery, their determination. Dean, unstoppable when someone threatens his family. Lincoln, ex-military and unwavering in his protectiveness. They’ll come for us, I tell myself. They must.

I glance at Sophia as she keeps trying to break free. “We can’t give up,” she murmurs, voice determined. “Dean always told me… never lose hope.”

My own tears slip free, dripping onto the container floor. “He’s right. We won’t.”

“Got it,” Sophia declares triumphantly as she is able to break free from her ties. “Let me do yours,” she whispers, and my smile widens at the thought of breaking free.

Chapter 27

Lincoln

I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard my fucking knuckles ache, eyes fixed on the dimly lit road stretching toward Saint Pierce’s shipping port. Dean rides shotgun, scanning the horizon with the same anxious tension that twists my stomach into knots. Behind us, three SUVs loaded with Maddox Security men follow, headlights cutting through the darkness. The sound of the tires on pavement seems unnaturally loud in my ears, even over the chatter coming from the comms units we’ve distributed.

“Everyone confirm comms,” Dean says, voice low but carrying authority. One by one, each driver checks in. My own earpiece crackles with the affirmatives. Good. We’ll need all the coordination we can get tonight.

We got the tip less than an hour ago—a security camera from a nearby gas station caught the black van carrying Isabel. Another angle from a city traffic cam showed it headed for theSaint Pierce docks. That was all we needed to mobilize. The moment we realized Lazarus Delgado could be shipping them abroad, everything slid into hyperdrive. My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since.

Dean exhales heavily, running a hand through his cropped hair. “Lazarus is out of his mind,” he mutters, almost to himself. “If he thinks he’ll get away with taking Sophia and my sister overseas, he’s going to learn otherwise tonight.”

“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.

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