For hours trapped in darkness, Joey used his time not to panic, but to observe and listen. He realized his captors were experiencing fatigue and decreased vigilance towards dawn. From the crack under the door, he saw the main lights turned off, leaving only emergency lights. The sound of footsteps, initially regular, now only occurred occasionally. Two of his three captors were asleep in chairs outside, while one—the one with the Santa Muerte tattoo—was still on guard but looked sleepy and kept checking his watch, as if waiting for a shift change or guard rotation.
His acting lessons and experience quietly observing Domenico work now came into play. Joey knew the best time to escape was during the transition between night and morning, when fatigue peaked and the new day hadn't fully begun.
He pretended to cough loudly, then groaned in pain.
"Cállate, cabrón!" Shut up, you bastard! snapped the guard on duty, approaching the door.
Joey kept groaning, pretending to be weak. "Water... I need water," he said in a hoarse voice.
The guard grumbled, then opened the padlock. This was the opportunity Joey had counted on. As the guard opened the door and bent down to give him a water bottle, Joey—who had managed to loosen his bindings on the rough iron behind the chair—used all his strength to push the rickety wooden chair towards the guard.
The guard was startled and lost his balance. Quick and desperate, Joey snatched the Colt 1911 pistol tucked into the guard's waistband. In the chaos and darkness, Joey pushed the guard and ran out of the room.
He ran in the darkness, using stacks of containers and scattered old items as hiding places. He heard shouts and curses in Spanish behind him. The other two guards had woken up and were now hunting him inside the vast warehouse.
Joey didn't just run straight out. He remembered Domenico's words, "Never run without a purpose. Find a strategic position." He climbed onto a stack of wooden crates, giving himself a better vantage point and a place to take cover.
From atop the wooden crates, Joey's breath was ragged. His heart pounded wildly, but his hand holding the Colt 1911 was steady. Domenico's silent lessons spun in his head. "Control your breath. One shot, one target. Make every bullet count."
Joey saw the two awakened guards below, armed and angry, using their flashlights to sweep the darkness. The flashlights cut through the darkness like knives, illuminating piles of goods and dead corners.
"Sal, puto! Te vamos a encontrar!" Come out, bastard! We'll find you! Shouted one of them, his voice echoing in the vast warehouse.
Joey pressed his body deeper into the shadows, using the wooden crate as a shield. He watched their movements. They split up, trying to flank him. That was a mistake.
As the guard with the Santa Muerte tattoo stepped too close beneath his crate, Joey didn't hesitate. He aimed not to kill, but to disable. A single shot echoed, shattering the silence. The guard screamed, clutched his leg, and collapsed to the concrete floor. His weapon skidded away.
The shot panicked the second guard. He returned fire blindly towards the crate, bullets splintering the wood near Joey's head. Wood chips flew.
Joey ducked, his heart thundering in his ears. He heard hurried footsteps—the guard was running for cover. It was his chance.
Joey leaped lightly down from the crate, landing in a half-crouch. He moved quickly and silently, using piles of sacks and old machinery as shields. He could hear the moans of the wounded guard and the curses of the other.
His goal wasn't to engage in a firefight. His goal was to get out.
He saw a side door of the warehouse, slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of the emerging dawn light. It was his exit.
Joey moved from one hiding spot to another, approaching the door. Just as he was almost there, the second guard suddenly appeared from behind a forklift, gun raised.
"Te tengo, cabrón!" I've got you, bastard!
Time seemed to slow down. Joey saw the guard's finger tighten on the trigger. Instinct took over. He hid the Colt 1911 behind his back, while raising his other hand as if surrendering. His flushed, bruised face and ragged breathing made him look utterly helpless.
The guard approached, gun still aimed, but slightly less wary seeing Joey's seemingly defenseless condition. "Drop the gun!" he ordered in broken English.
Joey slowly bent down as if to put the gun down. But instead of dropping it, in one swift motion, he swung the Colt 1911 up and fired, hitting the guard squarely in the shoulder. It was a clean, accurate shot, like he'd seen Domenico's men do.
The guard was thrown back, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Joey didn't wait. He turned and ran with all his might towards that open side door. The cold, fresh morning air greeted him as he burst through, leaving behind the muffled shouts of anger and moans of pain inside the warehouse.
Joey didn't stop, continuing to run, disappearing into the labyrinth of containers and old ships in the deserted port.
The fog on the docks grew thicker, shrouding the early morning like a thick gray curtain. The sodium lights on tall poles flickered faintly, unable to pierce the darkness and cold. The salty smell of the sea mixed with oil and container rust. In the gaps between these iron corridors, Joey ran stumbling, his breath ragged, his heart pounding as if it would explode from his chest.
His hand trembled as the revolver in his grip clicked empty—the bullets were gone. A stifled scream of frustration caught in his throat, choked by fear. He leaned against the cold container wall.
Heavy footsteps approached. Spanish mixed with harsh shouts filled the air.
The sound of booted footsteps, getting closer. Joey gritted his teeth, his eyes darting wildly for an escape route, but the narrow alley was a dead end. His hand clutched the empty revolver like it was his last grip on life. Despair began to swallow his thoughts—until suddenly, a large hand clamped over his mouth from behind.
*
Breath still ragged and heart pounding, Joey felt the embrace from behind. A strong hand covered his mouth, strangling the scream that was about to escape. Panic seized him, more piercing than the fear he had just experienced. This is it, he thought. They've surrounded him.
But then, a warm whisper brushed his ear, piercing through the roar of his own blood. The voice was hoarse, trembling with concern, yet incredibly, achingly familiar.
"Quiet. It's me."
Joey froze. It was impossible. His mind must be playing tricks, creating a hallucination to comfort him in his dire moment. But the warmth of the body behind him, the grip that didn't hurt but protected, and the faint scent of soft soap clinging to the jacket—it was all too real. It was the same scent that clung to the sofa at Charlie's house, the scent that soothed him after nightmares.
"Charlie?" he hissed almost silently, his body trembling violently, not from cold, but from a wave of relief so overwhelming it nearly paralyzed him.
"Ssh, don't make a sound," Charlie whispered again, his voice closer, more reassuring. His hand slowly released its hold on Joey's mouth and instead pulled him tighter into the embrace, hiding them both behind a stack of rusty empty drums. "I'm here."
Joey pressed his face into Charlie's jacket, holding back the sobs that wanted to burst out. Relief, shame, fear, and a primal sense of safety all churned in his chest.
From behind the stack of drums, they could hear hurried footsteps and shouts in Spanish. Flashlights swept the path between the containers, just meters from their hiding spot.
"Dónde está ese pinche güero?" Where is that fucking blonde bastard?
"Revisa allá!No puede haber ido lejos!" Check over there! He couldn't have gone far!
Joey held his breath, every muscle in his body tensing. Charlie felt the tension. His arm wrapped around Joey's chest gave a calming squeeze, a silent, meaningful gesture: I'm here. We're together.
Charlie's eyes were alert, tracking the movement of the shadows. He was unarmed. His only weapons were his knowledge of this location from his reconnaissance, the contingency plans he had meticulously thought through, and the instinct of a desperate father.
After what felt like a year, the footsteps and flashlight beams slowly moved away, continuing their search into another, more distant area.
Charlie didn't move immediately. He remained still for a few more minutes, making sure the danger had truly passed.
Joey, still trembling in his arms, slowly began to calm down. Charlie's presence gave him a strength he hadn't known he possessed.
"W-what are you doing here? How did you know this place?" Joey finally whispered, his voice hoarse. "It's so dangerous. They could have killed you."
Charlie gently stroked Joey's disheveled hair. "You think I'd let you face this alone?" he whispered, his voice a mixture of anger, relief, and indescribable affection. "I've been following that van since they took you from Port Newark. I never let you out of my sight. And..." There was a brief pause before Charlie answered, "Leonhard told me."
Joey's eyes widened for a moment. Not that he was surprised; Leonhard leaking a bit of information was plausible. That man simply underestimated Charlie too much.
Joey could only look at the man he had come to consider a father in the dim darkness, his blue eyes glistening. Charlie, who was usually behind the camera, who avoided violence, had braved such danger for him.
"We need to get out of here," Charlie finally said, his voice returning to the decisive tone of a director taking control. "I parked the car not far from here. But we have to be very careful."
He peered out from their hiding spot, making sure the path was clear. "Come on. Follow me. And stay low."
With Charlie leading, they crept out from behind the drums, hugging the shadows provided by the labyrinth of containers and old buildings. Every sound made them freeze, every moving shadow made their hearts race.
The journey to the car felt like an eternity. But with each step, Joey's feeling changed. From a frightened victim, he became a fighter again. He was no longer alone. He had something—someone—to fight for.
Finally, they saw the silhouette of Charlie's car, discreetly parked behind a half-collapsed warehouse.
"Almost there," Charlie whispered, reaching for his car keys.
Just as they were about to step out of their last hiding place, the sound of deep, guttural engines approached rapidly, not from one direction, but from several. The glare of high beams from two black 1990 Chevrolet Suburbans swept the area, trapping them in a blinding crossfire. Their diesel engines roared like snarling beasts, emitting thin smoke into the damp, salty morning air.
The SUV doors opened. Six armed men jumped out, their faces hard and emotionless under the car lights. They moved with military discipline, spreading out and forming a semicircle, cutting off all escape routes to Charlie's car. Leading them was the man with the Santa Muerte tattoo, his face pale and contorted with burning pain and rage, his leg wrapped in a makeshift bandage. His eyes, dark and full of hatred, stared directly at Joey.
"No disparen a matar! El Jefe lo quiere vivo!" he shouted, but his tone promised pain. Don't shoot to kill! The Boss wants him alive!
"Al otro, dispárenle a las piernas!" The other one, shoot him in the legs!
Charlie grabbed Joey's arm and yanked him back roughly, saving them both from the first burst of gunfire that shattered Charlie's windshield and echoed loudly in the port's silence. Glass scattered like a deadly crystal rain.
They both hit the ground behind a pile of used tires and old ship engines, a flimsy shelter. The smell of rotten rubber, oil, and wet asphalt filled Joey's nose. Bullets continued to rain down on their position, tearing through tires and ricocheting off metal with terrifying pings.
"Joey, towards the docks!" Charlie yelled, his voice nearly lost in the roar of gunfire. "Towards the ships! It's the only way!"
Heart pounding, Joey nodded. He crawled, then sprang up, running hunched over with Charlie behind him. They sprinted from one container stack to another, from one dilapidated shed to the next. Bullets chased their steps, shattering already broken windows and tearing through weathered wooden walls.
[°•]