Chapter 9: The Convoy
Chapter 9: The Convoy
Through the blinding sheet of driving rain, the headlights of three black SUVs finally pierced the darkness. They rolled in a tight formation into the flooded gravel yard of the shipyard. The heavy, armored tires crunched over the debris, sliding to a halt just outside the main hangar doors. The headlights cut through the gloom of the warehouse, illuminating thick dust motes dancing in the cold, freezing air.
Eleanor watched silently from the rusted catwalk above, perfectly concealed in the darkness.
Vargas stepped out of the lead vehicle first. He was a broad-shouldered man with a heavily scarred neck, wearing a thick leather coat that repelled the rain. He barked an aggressive order in Spanish. His men moved quickly, dragging Sarah roughly out of the second vehicle. She was bound tightly at the wrists with zip-ties, sobbing hysterically, her clothes completely drenched. Behind her, one of the hulking mercenaries carried Eleanor’s oldest grandson, eight-year-old Tommy, ruthlessly pressing the cold barrel of a rifle against his small, trembling back.
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"Eleanor!" Vargas shouted, his booming voice echoing endlessly in the cavernous, empty shipyard. "I brought the cargo. Your precious family is here. Now bring me mine! Or we start leaving pieces of them on the dock!"
Eleanor’s grip tightened on the freezing steel railing of the catwalk until her fingers ached. She took a slow, deep breath, centering her heart rate. It was time to serve dinner.
