131. FELIX YEATS (POV)

131. FELIX YEATS (POV)
We move in formation toward the container that Phill pointed out. Outside the car, our weapons are raised, ready for anything. The lighting at the port is weak—distant lampposts throw a flickering glow, spotlights blink like they’re playing tricks, and the whole place feels like a horror set waiting to swallow us whole. And I have to admit, I like it. The adrenaline’s rushing through my veins.
Plastic crates are scattered across the ground, left behind in the port’s abandonment. Every step echoes, amplified by the heavy silence pressing in on us. The tension keeps pulsing through my veins.
A loud creak slices through the air—a container being shut. All my senses go on high alert. I take off running toward the sound, my footsteps quick, with Tony right beside me, dodging a stack of boxes. Phill and the others are close behind.
“I think he’s in there, boss,” Tony whispers.
The next few seconds drag out. The silence is almost deafening, broken only by the clinking of metal containers shifting in the wind.
I take two steps toward the metal box. The lock is sealed. My finger slides out—I carefully unhook the latch, making sure it doesn’t creak and give us away. The sound of the metal is dry and clean.
I open the door slowly, using my body to push it inward. My gun goes in first, trying to feel out the darkness inside.
“Isabelle?” I call out softly, hoping I’ll find her soon.
Simon’s playing hide-and-seek, thinking I won’t find them, but he’s dead wrong. I won’t rest until I find Isabelle.
I doubt his father has any idea what he’s up to, and I need to make sure he finds out—even if I have to show up myself to let him know.
The inside looks empty at first glance. Either Simon’s already gone… or he hid things too well, hoping to throw me off.
I take a deep breath, trying to get a grip on the nerves crawling up my spine.
“Split up. Search every inch of this damn port,” I order firmly. “Phill, go around back with your men. Tony, cover the middle.”
We step out of the container carefully, each footstep sending out small metallic echoes. The smell of fuel mixed with dampness makes the air thick and hard to breathe.
Crumpled newspaper pages are scattered across the floor—no blood, no sign of Isabelle.
I hear a muffled sound—something brushing against metal behind a stack of crates. My heart kicks into overdrive.
“There!” I whisper, pointing.
Tony moves first, rifle up. He pulls a box forward. I aim… but there’s no one there—just space.
The silence falls again, heavy as ever.
Then Tony, behind me, calls out, “Boss… cameras! Over here!”
He’s holding the tablet clipped to his side, showing the live feed from the external cameras. I see a car pulling up next to another container, its doors opening. Simon’s silhouette appears, dragging an unconscious Isabelle.
My blood turns to ice.
He’s keeping her sedated—and that’s not going to be good for her. Especially after everything she’s already been through this past month. They move across the yard, slipping between containers, thinking they’ve thrown us off, circling us.
“Two minutes, tops,” I mutter to myself.
“We’re going to that container. Now.” I turn to Tony and give the order.
Every second counts now if we’re going to get Isabelle back. The metal ground vibrates under my feet, fury boiling inside me.
I’ll tear this whole damn port apart if I have to.
Container N-37 is tucked behind a pile of barrels, only partially visible—the perfect setup for an ambush. Phill appears at my side right after Tony confirms over the radio. They stay ahead of me, perfectly in sync, their eyes locked on my movements, every muscle tight and ready.
We walk until we’re about ten meters from the opening. I don’t miss a single detail—not the shape of the floor, not the shadows cast by the spotlights dancing over the containers. On Tony’s tablet, the heat detection mode shows two sources: one still, the other moving—Simon holding Isabelle. The tension hardens in my lungs like concrete.
“Tony, keep that open,” I whisper. “Just a little more.”
He slowly turns the latch—every millimeter of metal loosening seems to echo through the deadly silence. My fingers tremble slightly, but I hide it, breathing in only the soft electric buzz from the heat detectors.
The door creaks ominously as it opens just enough to reveal shapes inside. Phill and the others come in behind me; I hold the door with my foot and step forward, gun raised. The weapon’s flashlight casts a narrow beam into the dark space.
“Time for the fucking truth,” I mutter in my head, pushing forward with purpose.
Distant lights flick on around the perimeter—the sharp echo of footsteps scraping over metal floors slices into the night. Men appear out of nowhere—uniformed, armed, eyes lit with adrenaline.
A gunshot cracks the air. The tactic kicks in.
The first shot comes from the right—I hit one of Simon’s men in the shoulder. He screams and stumbles back. The chain reaction follows: the second shooter goes down as I duck and roll behind a barrel, dropping to one knee while Tony and Phill launch a coordinated offensive—tight formation, controlled ammo.
I rise, sharpen my aim: a clean shot hits an opponent in the knee. The click of my weapon barely registers before instinct takes over—another round, pure reflex. Rage pours through every trigger pull. In a clean move, I use the butt of my rifle to disarm a third guy sneaking up from the side—a hard strike drops him. He hits the floor, out cold.
Return fire erupts around us. One bullet punches through the barrel I’m using for cover—shards of metal fly. The smell of gunpowder floods my senses.
“Cover fire!” I order Tony, who reacts without hesitation—he moves into position behind me, holding the line.
Phill flanks wide—he runs around the container, drops into a shooting stance, and fires at two more men trying to push in from the left side. He shoots fast and clean, dropping both targets before they even realize what hit them.
I rush to where Isabelle is lying—she’s breathing hard, barely conscious. We know this moment demands care, but we don’t waste a second.
A precise shot clears out the last face trying to sneak up behind the stack of barrels. That final bullet rings out like a verdict; Simon’s men falter, stumble, then stop. The unbearable silence settles back in.
I keep my gun steady, scanning every possible shadow. “She’s alive,” I say quietly, more to myself than to anyone else—my heart is still thundering, a beast in my chest. I close my eyes for a second, then step back to cover the container’s flank.
The cold port breeze mixes with smoke and thick tension. I reload slowly, my fingers brushing over the spent shells as I glance into the night’s emptiness. This fight is won—but the war’s not over. And no one’s taking what’s mine.
“Reinforcements at the east entrance,” Phill reports. “No more movement.”
I take a deep breath. I’m ready to take Isabelle out of here—and burn the whole goddamn world down if I have to.