Page 67 of Everest

The port is quiet in an eerie, unnatural way, as if it knows death is near. Our current location is isolated, dimmer, and cut off from the rest of the property by a long stretch of rusted fencing.

I’m vibrating, every muscle in my body wired tight, my trigger finger twitching, and my heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest. Steel walls rise around us, containers stacked high as we weave our way straight into the belly of the beast toward the southeast side of the yard—weapons up, no words.

She’s here, somewhere in this goddamn maze.

I’m here, baby. I’m coming for you.

Suddenly, a man with a rifle steps out from the shadows. I don’t hesitate and put a bullet in his chest. His body jerks backward, slamming into the side of a steel box. We keep moving as another man charges us, his weapon raised. Wick puts three rounds into his body.

“Move, move,” Riggs growls, sweeping left.

We charge deeper into the yard, cutting through narrow lanes between containers. Gunfire erupts, and bullets ping off the steel surrounding us.

We crouch, taking cover.

Riggs clocks the culprit, hiding behind a forklift. He takes aim and fires one shot, and the motherfucker is dead. Fender pivots and fires twice, knocking another man clean off his feet.

We press forward, keeping our momentum.

The river is louder now, slapping against the banks. We’ve made it to the southeast side of the port.

A slow movement flickers at the edge of my vision, and out of the darkness emerges a shadow, a gun aimed in our direction.His steps are deliberate, each echoing with a menacing weight that heightens my pulse as the air around us thickens.

We aim at the motherfucker.

He doesn’t flinch.

I move forward. “Velasco,” I growl.

He smiles, slow and unsettling. He doesn’t confirm or deny his identity. Instead, he takes a drag and flicks a cigarette to the dirt. “You came for the bitch but walked into your own funeral.” His voice is smooth and cold.

“Where is she?” I demand, my fingers curling tighter on the trigger.

He tilts his head. “Sold goods. Some twisted fuck out of Croatia is already foaming at the mouth to get his hands on that spitfire. He likes them loud. He likes to break them.”

I see red and take another step forward.

The bastard chuckles. “Maybe I’ll take her for a spin myself.”

“Not while I'm breathin',” I seethe, my voice lethal.

He chuckles again, deeper this time, and raises an eyebrow. "That can be arranged.”

I'm done.

I don’t wait for another word to move past the asshole’s lips.

I shoot him in the chest.

He stumbles, his eyes wide in shock, but unfortunately, he’s still breathing. Still fucking laughing. He drops to his knees, coughing, with spit trailing down his chin. “You’re dead men walking.” He grins, crimson foam bubbling from his lips.

I walk up, gun steady, look down at him, and pull the trigger, cutting off his twisted laugh and splitting his skull like a melon. The bastard is dead, but I find no relief. I won't until I see London.

Looking at the containers, I run and start ripping open doors, frantically searching for her.

The others jump into action.

“Back here!” Fender shouts, and I head toward the sound of his voice.

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