Page 57 of Everest

We leave the vehicles and trek the rest of the way on foot, our boots crunching over loose gravel and overgrown weeds. We keep our eyes sharp and don’t speak. Containers are scattered about the property, some stacked three high, and graffiti covers the sides of the steel boxes. Right where the anonymous caller said it would be, a solo container sits near the river's south end.

Riggs holds up a hand, and we stop, hidden behind a rusted-out forklift.

There are three guards. One is pacing slowly along the fence line near the river. Another is camped out near the back end of a semi-trailer. The third is leaning against an SUV about thirty feet from the container. A cigarette glows in the dark, lighting his face with each drag.

There are no words spoken.

Riggs gives silent commands. Each directive is precise. We fan out, circling the perimeter. The guards have no clue we’re even here.

I watch Fender slip behind one of the men, a knife in his hand. One quick move, he covers the guard’s mouth, dragging the blade across his throat.

Wick and I head for the smoker. He’s distracted, eyes on his phone. While the dumbass is still looking down, Wick slides in behind him, grabs his head, and twists, snapping his neck like a twig. The second guard drops like a sack of bricks. The third motherfucker shouts, but Kiwi is on him, and a gunshot cracks through the air, then the third guard drops.

We rush toward the container as Kiwi digs the keys out of the dead man’s pocket, tossing them to Riggs, who unlocks the padlock and pulls the double doors open.

The smell hits us first—sweat, piss, vomit, and blood.

I use the flashlight on my phone, shining it into the container.

There she is, slumped over near the back of the steel box. I head inside. The closer I get, the more I see of her. “Shit,” I mutter. Her eyes are swollen shut, her lips cracked, and blood dried around her nose and mouth. She is half-naked, her shirt torn from her body, and only wearing panties. She also has deep purple bruises and welts on her thighs. I remove my cut and take off my shirt. Kneeling, I slip it over her head, putting each arm carefully through the sleeves. That’s when I notice the needle marks down both arms. Anger swells inside me, knowingwhat she probably endured. “They’ve kept her doped,” I say. I look at her. “Amara.” I try getting a response, but get nothing. I check her pulse—it's weak, but there. Her skin is clammy, and her breathing is shallow. She moans when I shift her, but it’s a broken, ragged sound, like she’s in pain but has no strength left to scream.

Riggs crouches next to me. “She needs a hospital.” He stands, turning to Wick. “Dig the SUV keys off the guy you silenced.” He then faces Kiwi. “Ride with them. The rest of you are with me to clean this shit up. We leave no evidence we were here.”

Wick finds the key fob in the dead guy’s pocket. “Load her while I start it up.”

Amara is limp in my arms as I seat her in the back. Kiwi slides into the passenger seat without a word. Wick slams the driver’s side door shut and hits the gas, kicking up gravel as we pull away from the yard.

“The fastest route to the nearest hospital is exit twenty-two. There’s a trauma center just off the ramp.”

Wick doesn’t respond. He drives hard and fast.

When we hit the off-ramp, we blow through the yellow light and pull up to the emergency room entrance. Wick slams the vehicle to a stop, and I push open the door, shuffling Amara into my arms and heading for the sliding glass entrance.

Inside, the emergency room is quiet. The calm lasts two seconds. “We need some fucking help here,” I boom, my voice echoing off the tiled walls like a shotgun blast.

The nurse behind the protective partition jumps to her feet and disappears. Kiwi barrels in behind me as two nurses rush out from the double doors leading to the back. I don’t wait. I carry Amara down the corridor, meeting the gurney halfway where I lay her down. “She’s been drugged. I don’t know what.” I don’t rattle off more because she’s wearing the evidence all overher body. I stand there for a beat as they wheel her away, hoping we arrived in time.

“Let’s go before we attract unwanted attention,” Kiwi says.

We don’t make it out of the doors before running into trouble. Two officers walk up to us, chests puffed, hands hovering over their weapons. The lead one, a tall, square-jawed asshole with a buzzcut, runs his stern gaze over us with suspicion. The uniform following close behind him is young and looks a bit twitchy. The lead cop strides over like he’s been waiting to flex on someone all day. “Who brought the girl?” His voice is raised way too loud.

I don’t flinch and meet his stare. “You’re lookin’ at him.”

The cop narrows his eyes. “Name?”

“Not givin’ it,” I reply.

The shorter cop steps closer into my space, thinking he can intimidate me. “Got any relation to the victim?”

“Found her.” My answer is short, tone clipped.

“That’s not an answer,” he snaps, trying to rattle me.

“Not givin’ you one,” I fire back.

His partner shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hand hovering nervously over his belt.

“I could haul your asses in right now,” he says. “For interfering with an investigation, withholding information.”

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