In one of the containers, the door was basically shut , left only slightly ajar , allowing those inside not to see what was happening directly in front of them outside.
Two guards stood by the entrance, two men from the Black Hounds. They leaned against the cold metal, faces carved from the same dullness as the container walls, watching the gaps between crates like hunters waiting for movement.
Inside that particular container were Anton and Sheri. Both looked slightly nervous. Anton , especially , was biting his nails, fingers worrying at the skin as if nail-bitten edges could steady his thoughts. The metal box smelled of dust and old oil. Light from the narrow opening slashed across the floor and cut their faces in half, leaving the rest in shadow. The air inside was still; the world outside was a muffled roar.
"What is going on, Anton? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?" Sheri asked. "You’ve gotten involved with these dangerous people. It feels as if this has gotten seriously out of hand.
"How do you think this will benefit you, or the Stale family, in any way?"
Anton pressed both hands over his face and his fingers curled, almost clawing at himself. He rocked on the spot like someone who had already decided how the story would end and now tried to will his courage into being.
"SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" Anton shouted. His voice snapped and ricocheted off the metal. "Why do I have to listen to your whining and nagging when you’re not even sleeping with me! This is all deserved because of you!
"First they’re going to deal with Max, then they’re going to get the Billion Bloodline group to pay out, and as for you, you are going to keep your mouth shut about everything.
"Unless you want me to make sure that these guys deal with you right after getting the money.
"Right now, they’re listening to me, so the only reason you’re alive is because of me!"
The words landed like blows. Sheri shook her head slowly, as if to clear dust. The anger in Anton’s voice made her feel more isolated than the walls did. Did he really believe that? She tried to measure him against the man she thought she knew and found the distance between them had widened into something she didn’t recognize.
Although Anton shouted those words, Sheri only shook her head. The money wasn’t even coming from him. It had come from the Bloodline group. Take Anton out of the picture and they were simply holding Sheri for ransom so they could collect money.
Her mind rushed in a loop of what-ifs. She worried because, seeing how large and organized this group was, if her family knew how much danger she was in , if the Stale family knew about Anton as well , could they even do anything? Or was the group that had captured them too powerful for even her family to act?
She thought of the Billion Bloodline group. They had already done so much for her family in the background , favors and hidden rescues, quiet help when things were worst. If the Bloodline group learned of this, would they step in? Or, because Sheri had no real relation to the whole thing, would they simply look the other way? The idea of being discarded, of being treated like a negotiable object, tightened behind her ribs.
"I wonder how the Billion Bloodline group will act to all of this... they’ve already done so much for me and for us, and with no relation to the whole thing, I imagine they will just chuck me to the side," she thought, anguished and raw.
Tears began to well up. Would they have to sell the entire business because of this situation? Would everything her family had worked for be gambled away to buy her safety? That thought hurt more than any threat. Because of Anton , because of rejecting him , this had happened. All she had done was refuse him. How did that become a justification for such danger?
Outside the container, Max was running from area to area, but he had slowed his advance compared to before. Now he was checking the insides of the shipping containers in a more methodical way. This place was the obvious hiding ground: perfect, abandoned metal rooms stacked with narrow pathways and blind corners. He knew that if someone wanted to disappear in a port, this was how they would do it.
When he pried doors open, most of the containers were empty or held a few old crates and moulding materials. Dust shifted in the air like old ghosts. Tarpaulins sagged, and broken pallets leaned against walls. Every empty space tightened the map of possible hiding spots; every false lead made the true one feel smaller and more urgent.
What was worse, men were still following closely behind him. There must have been more than Aron’s estimate , or else they were simply well-positioned. Aron had admitted he couldn’t explore the whole place without being caught; now Max felt the truth of that. Every turn, every angle seemed ready to be covered.
As one man ran after him, Max timed his move and kicked a metal door just so; the slab smacked the pursuer in the face with a brutal clang. He didn’t hesitate. Max ran up and, like a footballer who only knew the most practical end of the game, booted the man’s head hard, making sure the attacker wouldn’t get back up.
Another individual jumped behind Max and began to strangle him from behind. Hot fingers closed around his throat. Max’s world narrowed to pressure and the coarse breath of the man pinning him. He twisted and writhed, fighting for purchase on the arm that squeezed his windpipe. His hands slapped and scrabbled at the grip, his heels grabbed for leverage. It was messy, panicked, and the sort of close-quarters struggle that stripped fighting down to instinct.
"Damn it," Max thought, mouth pressed to a line. "All this fighting and running while looking around, and these guys , they fight well as well. I can’t fight properly like this!"
One small mercy: they weren’t using knives. If they had, Max could already be carrying serious injuries. He hated the idea of being stabbed, the sudden burn and the intrusive panic that came with it. He swallowed that thought and pushed at the angle he had, timing a shoulder roll and an elbow strike.
On top of one of the containers, one of the men had come running and looked down, seeing Max struggling. He could also see the other Black Hound members that had been beaten up around the yard and thought the kid was too much trouble.
"That kid is so much trouble, it’s time to get rid of him!" the man said , and before he could take a step forward a baton swung by the side and cracked him right on the head.
The first blow staggered him; on its way to be flung aside, another baton from the other side hit him, causing his head to move like a pinball between hits. In quick succession the baton struck other parts of his body , aimed mainly at his legs , and at the end, a heavy kick to his back sent the man tumbling to the ground.
Max dug his hand under the arm that had been strangling him, twisted it over the man’s shoulder, and drove a kick into his stomach. He followed with a finishing strike under the jaw that left the attacker crumpled.
When he looked up at where the man had fallen, he saw Aron standing there.
"I’ll take care of all the ones above, so don’t worry," Aron said.
Saying those words almost like a guardian angel.