Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (21 page)

“Let me speak to Farrington.”

He angles slightly, holds the cell on speaker nearer to my face and sneers. “Speak.”

I’m trembling involuntarily. “Ryder.”

“Have they hurt you?”

“No.” I try to answer bravely, but it comes out a pathetic whimper.

“I am coming for you.” It’s an oath.

Ryder disconnects the call.

“Fuck. Fuck, FUCK, FUCK!” Miguel hammers a clenched fist against the dashboard, cracking and warping the material in his rage. “Get over there immediately!” Miguel commands his driver hotly, then says to his hired men on my left, “I want a sniper on building B!” His voice rises in a frenzy of fury. “I want this guy DEAD! I want his brains and blood poured on the ground under my feet!”

The man to my left makes the phone call.

“Sir, the sensitive information?” the one on my right asks.

Miguel turns his head and sets his brutal eyes on me. “With what I’m going to do, Ryder Axton will be begging me to
allow him
to delete the information.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ryder

“The vehicle is disabled,” Briggs informs me calmly.

Quickly, I right Douchebag’s Ducati, straddle the seat and rev the engine. I speed dial Agent Jones.

“Now you call.”

“Did you find the mole?”

“Yeah, and brought in the exterminator. Is she safe?”

“No, Miguel has Farrington. I don’t have time to explain—I need you undetectable at Mason Shipyard—”

“How long?”

“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.

“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.

Before another word is spoken in negotiation, I hear the gun fire.

I’M DEAD!

I hear myself scream.

Then Miguel’s hold loosens and his form drops to the ground behind me. His gun clatters away from him.

I stumble forward as Ryder rushes to catch me. I collapse in his arms as he draws my body into his, he lifts me against his chest then moves me so he is shielding me from Miguel, who’s lying on the ground bleeding out.

Ryder’s hands and eyes quickly take assessment of my physical state. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Have you been shot or stabbed?” His words flow so violently I don’t have a chance to answer. “You’re not wet.”

That’s an odd observation.

“I think I’m okay . . .”

“Briggs, we need an ambulance!” Ryder urges. I remember he’s wearing the ear device.

“How?” Miguel interrupts, contorting in anger and agony.

Ryder keeps his gun aimed at him. “The first report was that Drew Jameson stole half a million dollars street value of cocaine. It made sense you went after him—you had to show Cruz loyalty and the ability to deal with your issues. It also made sense why, when the feds picked you up, you were willing to lay Cruz’s head on the chopping block—hell, you certainly didn’t want to share in Jameson’s fate, did you? And we both know Cruz would have no problem mincing you into dog food over a mere half a mil.

“But then I discovered Mason Enterprises—and your alias ownership of the up and coming premier shipping corporation. Didn’t add up why you’d even sweat the loss of chump change like that. With all the money you’re raking in, you could’ve paid Cruz back. But you didn’t want that. You were setting yourself up to take over his territory.”

“So your story to the feds was a bunch of bullshit designed to throw them off your scent. And Cruz didn’t bust you out of that transport, because you had the power to do it yourself. You’d been patient; erected legitimate businesses to hide your illegitimate ventures, but even more important than operating under the radar of law enforcement, your real survival was making sure Cruz believed you were honest and loyal until you were ready to make your move. You also had to fool your own hired men to make sure none reported your activities back to Cruz. Can’t trust anyone these days—too many dishonest people.”

Miguel groans and curses.

“Then just when you were ready to pull the trigger, Cruz broke the news that he had a new assignment for his trusted lieutenant—the transportation and distribution of 12,000 pounds of cocaine. And that’s when you flipped your shit. Six tons of cocaine has a street value of roughly two hundred million dollars—that’s a lot of fucking zeros. Hell, funds like that would bring a windfall to Cruz and crush you and any dream you had of overthrowing the monarchy.

“You had to get rid of it, and fast, but you had to make it look like one of your connections had done the double cross, and who better to be the patsy than Drew Jameson?”

I watch as Agent Jones—one of the FBI guys who was protecting me and Ryder’s friend —comes out of the shadows and closer to where we’re standing.

Ryder continues. “Even when Farrington came around the corner—you could’ve gotten rid of a witness easy enough. You’d already built up corrupt connections you could manipulate within political offices and law enforcement, so when you took her, you figured you’d sell her to the highest bidder and give the money to Cruz. It wouldn’t come close to evening out the deficit, but it would be a show of good faith and buy you time to seize your chance and murder him.

“And, always thinking like the resilient businessman you are, you realized that giving the girl to your Mexican buyer was proof and testimony of your power to not only get rid of witnesses, but to also supply
his
buyers with beautiful, American women—buyers in places like India, Africa, Egypt and Russia, and I’m sure, some in the States as well. A calling card to telegraph how much easier it would be to transport them using your legitimate shipping companies.”

I flinch at the mention of being sold and the truth that there are still evil people in the world who buy and sell girls and women. It’s not easy to forget how close I came to that horrifying, unimaginable fate.

“You thought you had the deal sealed, but then Farrington confessed that she knew where Jameson hid the drugs. Bet she spilled that info to a couple cartel boys you didn’t want thinking that you could’ve retrieved what you said had been stolen. So you threatened to kill her unless she told you—but you knew she had nothing to tell. Then when she got away, you had to make a grand gesture to display your power and influence and wrap it all up nice and neat.”

Miguel knew all along that I was bluffing about knowing where the drugs were. Oh God, it all makes so much sense now.

Ryder takes a breath. “Pretty good racket—murder, corruption, drugs and human trafficking—you’re the real deal, Eduardo Miguel. Public Enemy #1.”

Miguel writhes in pain as he rages back at Ryder. “You think you are walking away with your lives, but my influence is everywhere. She’ll never be safe, never! I will cut her to pieces while I force you to watch helplessly. I’ll spare you no mercy.”

The promise in his words makes me tremble with fear. I believe him. No matter how far I run, I’ll never be rid of Miguel.

Ryder’s body tenses as his gun fires. The bullet lodges between Miguel’s eyes; his body is thrust backwards and sprawls over the ground.

The crack of the shot startles me, and the sound echoes through the shipyard.

Soul-racking sobs of combined fear and relief quake through my chest. The fissure snakes through my defenses, rupturing my iron-clad will to act brave and tough and defiant.

Ryder brings his arms around me and holds me.

A moment later, our world erupts with sirens and blue and red flashing lights.

Ryder’s strong hand secures my head as he cradles me. “It’s over, Rachel. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be okay.”