I hear gunfire in the distance, hear Fonz in my ear counting dropped tangos like he's keeping score in a video game.
"Do you require backup, Fonz?" Taj asks in his soft, lilting voice. "We are not far away."
"Nah, I got it…" he trails off and I hear a burst echo in concert over the comms and from the distance. "…All…wrapped…up. Fuck you, dickhead, think you can hide there? Take a bullet to the earhole, fucknuts. Yeah, bitch, how you like them apples?"
"Am I as annoying as he is?" Saxon asks.
"Not hardly, brother," Sol answers. "You're far more annoying."
"Oh, fuck you."
"Inez is in there alone!" I shout, sprinting across the open space. "Cut the fucking jokes!"
Solomon rips a burst into the container and then pivots behind cover as a return volley scorches the air where he was. Lungs burning, wounds pulsating agony so potent it leaves me snarling with each searing gasp, I don't so much as hesitate as I barrel into the container at full speed.
Only pure stunned shock saves me; Rafa left a handful of men behind to delay pursuit. I'm among them before I know what's happening. I drop my rifle to hang by the strap and lash out with an elbow, catching something hard that gives way with a crunching thunk. I draw my sidearm and fire it blindly at an upward angle in the general direction of the man I elbowed. The noise of the shot rings in my ears. I spot movement out of the corner of my eye and strike behind with my foot, catch him in the belly and leave him doubled over and gasping; I fire again, and he drops. Now I'm surrounded and fists are slamming into me. I turtle, taking the blows to my back and ribs, and then I hear punches and scuffling and grunting, and then a series of single gunshots.
The blows stop and I lurch into motion, limping as fast as I can, grunting through the pain of each step.
I hear a shout from ahead, but it echoes and distorts. I hear a female shout of anger.
"INEZ!" I scream. "I'm coming!"
I hear feet behind me but spare no thought or time for who it may be. I don't care.
A gunshot rings out, echoing weirdly.
I turn the first corner—the container that was open was more of a foyer, just an empty container with a few metal barrels overturned to create a firing position near a doorway cut through the walls. Here, the ambient light from outside isn't enough to cut the gloom, and I bring my rifle up and turn on the under-barrel flashlight attachment.
Here I see the evidence of Rafael's presence: the metal walls are covered with rugs to absorb sound and soften the harshness of the bare metal, and another rug covers the floor. On the rug is a couch and coffee table, with a battery-operated camping lantern providing harsh white lighting. A stack of paperback novels rests on the table, one of them propped open on its spine. A cigarette smolders in an ashtray near the open book and a green glass bottle of wine stands half-empty, a red Solo cup near it. The smoke twists up to the ceiling and vanishes through some cleverly hidden ventilation.
I take all this in as I pass through, hurdling the couch on my way to the next opening cut through the walls. The next container/chamber contains a porta-potty, the smell from which is truly awful, being trapped inside the container.
I hear another shot, a third.
My light beam sweeps the next opening—blood is smeared on the wall from someone bouncing off of it. A puddle of blood turns the floor slick and slippery, and I see a heel mark skidding through it, and another footprint directly in the middle of it—this gives me hope that the blood belongs to Rafa rather than Sophia.
A fourth container is empty but for a ladder leading up through a hole in the floor/ceiling; the rungs are coated in blood. The dull copper of a spent shell glitters in the beam as I sweep itacross the container, still half on the ladder. Another casing rolls lazily toward me.
I hear feet clomping on metal directly above me, and then Inez's muffled voice.
A gunshot.
Inez’s voice is silent.
"No, no, no," I snarl under my breath, hauling myself into the chamber and sprinting forward; the path now is a straight line following the long axis of four containers, an eighty-foot stretch that I sprint down, gasping raggedly, doggedly ignoring the excruciating pain in my hip.
At the end of the fourth container is another ladder up, which I ascend recklessly fast, intent only on catching up to Rafael and Inez.
I emerge in yet another empty container, hobble through it to another ladder leading up. Here, however, daylight spears down in a circular spotlight. Scrambling up, I emerge blinking into daylight. A hundred or so yards away, at the end of the containers, the waters of the Port of LA glitter and ripple and glint. I'm just in time to see Rafael dodge a vicious swing of the long black blade in Inez's fist. His left arm is bathed red, blood dripping from his fingers as he dances lithely away from Inez's wild swings. She's screaming in a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, an occasional curse in English sprinkled in—she's almost incoherent. Gone is Inez's legendary icy calm. This is a creature born of her unleashed rage and hate.
My hip and leg are both ready to give out whether I will it or not, so I hobble-hop-limp from container to container, pistol in my hands as I try to draw bead on Rafa. Their fight is messy and chaotic, leaving me no clear shot.
Rafael spots me first, grinning evilly through a split lip and bloody nose. He's weaponless but far from helpless—Rafael is no stranger to combat, armed and unarmed. Normally, he'd poseno real threat to someone like Inez, but she's not in control anymore, and her left leg is bathed in blood. She's slowing, shaking her head as if disoriented or concussed.
She swipes at Rafael with her knife, catching him across the belly; she opens his skin and looses a ribbon of blood down his front, but it's no mortal wound.
And it's a mistake.
