Dr. Ian West

I don’t care how Shaver came about this knowledge. Whether I gave something away during our meeting, or if he probed Porter for the intel. Maybe he had us followed the night we came here together.

I can dissect that later. Right now, I only care that I find her in time.

It’s like some bad action movie as I race toward the pedestrian bridge. I’ve got dirt and blood stains on my suit. People step aside, frightened of the wild-eyed man, to get out of my way. I don’t slow to apologize. The closer I get, the heavier my feet become.

Fire snakes up my calves and I stumble, righting myself as I grasp the chain railing. A vise tightens around my lungs. I breathe through the pressure.

I stop just long enough to look around. I know this is where I’m supposed to be—but which side of the bridge do I cross? Where is the destination? As I climb the bridge, dragging my useless legs, I keep searching until I reach the center. There are buildings on either side of the bridge. Which one?

“Where are you, Porter?”

To my left is a wine distillery. And on the right is a boat landing. People mill around the distillery, too busy to keep a hostage. I cross the bridge.

This is me, you fucking sadistic prick, crossing my bridge! I might even shout it out loud.

My phone vibrates with a call from Charlie. “We’re hitting The Yards now,” he says.

“Damn. That was fast,” I stammer out, breathless from the jaunt to get here.

“My dad has a search group on some local social media outlet that he keeps updated. Retired, but not dead. That’s what he says. We have a scent dog, and I got Porter’s scent from her laundry. We’ll split into two smaller groups and start scouting either side of Riverwalk Trail.”

I nod, as if he can see me. I’m nearing the boat landing and staring up at the buildings along the river. “I’m heading to the shipping yard.” I swallow hard. “We’ll find her. She’s here. Thank you, Charlie.” I end the call before the weight of my fear bleeds through the line.

I’ll find her.

I take out the card and study it for the hundredth time, looking for some match on the buildings to the castle. A fucking castle. Now’s not the time for sarcastic skepticism. My doubt can’t hold me back.

A loud bang ricochets through the yard. A hydraulic crane lifts and deposits shipping containers onto the landing. Another bang, and it hits me with a sick twist of my insides—the utter realization of Shaver’s plan.

I break into a run.

There are many—too many—shipping containers. I strain to see them all. They stretch across the landing, all the way into a massive warehouse. Panic stabs my chest. I text Charlie, because my voice can’t be trusted. I tell him to bring the dog…to bring every last person.

She’s here.

I start with the first container. Bolted. I knock on the side, then wait to hear movement within. But no. He wouldn’t have her out in the open. Think.

Somewhere private.

I push past dock workers as I maneuver to the warehouse. It’s a giant, rusted storage unit with tall bays and open-frame levels inside to store cargo. Lots of cargo. Sweat leaks into my eyes. I wipe at my forehead, then yank my jacket off.

It’s like trying to solve a fairytale riddle. Where is the princess being held? In the highest tower? I scan the warehouse and mutter a curse. Then I start the climb, one rung at a time.

I bang on every container on my way up, fearing that it’s pointless. That Porter’s been drugged, sedated. Or worse. Fearing that I’m too late. Over twenty-four hours. How long can a person survive inside a container?

Shaver was never letting her go. After the trial, win or lose, her body was going to be moved and discarded. Like a piece of cargo.

The small search party enters the unit, and I wave down to Charlie. He points toward the other side of the warehouse. “We got a scent.”

Every bone in my body liquefies under the swell of that crashing wave.

I’m down in a matter of seconds and heading up the back of the search party. The dog steers us toward the middle of the warehouse before it stops, sniffing in circles.

“He lost the scent,” Charlie explains. He looks frantic. That look detectives get when they’re so close…

I glance up. “Give me the dog.”

It’s a risky climb up a ladder with a German Shepard (not a lap dog) under one arm, but I manage it at a slow, crawling pace. I hiss a fervent curse every time I miss a rung. At each platform, the dog hunts for the scent. The dog wines as I try to lift him again. He doesn’t trust me. “I don’t trust me, either, buddy.”

“Hey you! What are you doing up there?”

I wipe at my forehead. “Cardio,” I shout down. “What does it look like?”

Even from up here, I can tell the foreman isn’t impressed. “Get the hell down. Now.”

“Sir, that’s not happening. I have four levels to climb and search, and you have a woman being held hostage in one of your containers.”

Charlie sidles up beside me, the rest of the five-man search party spreading out on either side of the platform. I’m grateful for their back-up, as the burly foreman looks meaty enough to tear my limbs right off.

He removes his cap and scrubs a hand through his hair. “What the hell did you just say?” He whistles over to his crew. “Bring that lift.”

Well shit. “That would’ve been a smarter and more proficient tactic,” I whisper to Charlie.

“You’re a trial consultant. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Noted.”

Within minutes, the titan of forklifts has the foreman lifted to our level. Charlie briefly explains that, we can have this place crawling with cops, or we can do the search ourselves. The man seems to frown at the idea of cops. No one likes cops, even if they have nothing to hide. It’s a psychological tool implemented early on in adolescence.

The big man nods. “We’ll help.”

We resume the search, time wasted, but we make it up with the help of the crew and their much cleverer, convenient access to the containers.

By the time we’re on the fifth row and nearing the top level, I’m drowning in sweat and despair. I realize I missed a call from Eddie. Only I can’t talk to him. Not yet. Shaver is better at reading people than Eddie is at concealing his emotions.

I need Eddie to stay on track with the trial until…

Hands planted against a container, I squeeze my eyes closed. Bang my head against the corrugated steel. Trying to beat the defeated thoughts from my brain. “Dammit. Porter, where are you.”

The sound is so slight, if I weren’t frozen in my state of utter defeat, I might not hear it. I open my eyes and strain to hear. Another light tap. Then another.

I back away from the container, shaken. “Here!”

As the group nears, the barking picks up. The foreman stands in front of the container with a pair of bolt cutters, unsure. “If there’s really a woman in here… Maybe we should get the police.”

I’m not nearly as colossal as this man, and he can probably drop me dead with one solid right hook, but I’ll be damned if I don’t pummel my way right through him to get to Porter.

I snatch the bolt cutters from his hand and elbow my way to the lock.

Pure adrenaline and the desire to save Porter produces a Herculean strength I’d never obtained before. I bear down on the tool, teeth gritted, until I feel the hard snap as the lock gives.

Tossing the tool aside, I yank the lock off. Charlie and the guy are there to help me raise the door.

My heart stops.

The inside of the container is pitch-black. A flashlight is switched on. The beam roams the interior and lands on a huddled woman in the far corner.

There’s a flurry of movement as people rush to get to her.

“Stop—” The order releases in a low, deadly tone. All movement ceases.

I push through the throng, my heart in my throat. I’m desperate to scoop her into my arms and hold her close, get her out of this place—but I have to assess her first. Make sure she’s not injured, or in pain.

That she’s alive.

“Everyone back up,” Charlie says. “He’s a doctor.”

Well, I’m close enough. I kneel next to Porter and finally take a breath when I see her chest rise. Thank you, God. I push her tangled hair aside to inspect her face. She’s bruised under her eyes, dehydrated. She blinks a few times, trying to open her eyes, but she’s not lucid. I can tell by the way her head keeps dropping.

“I’m here,” I whisper to her. I check the bandages on her arms. The blood is dry. She has other scrapes and contusions along her arms and face…and I shove my rage down into the boiling lava pit so I can evaluate the rest of her.

“Charlie, call 9-1-1,” I say. “Get an ambulance here.”

He jumps on it. “Is she all right?”

I swallow down another burning grief ball. “She’s drugged and dehydrated, but I think she’s okay.” I wrap her in my arms and cradle her to my chest. “Porter?”

She blinks up at me, straining to latch on to my features through the haze distancing her. But she’s sees me. She knows I’m here. She’s the most beautiful sight. I breathe her in, place my lips to her forehead. When her hand reaches mine and she grips my fingers, a racked sigh relieves the pressure as it tears through my chest.

“It’s all right,” I tell her, over and over, just holding on.

While we wait for the ambulance to arrive, I punch out a text to Eddie. I have her. Destroy the bastard.