by Kyla Stone
Micah closed his eyes. As the sound of gunshots filled his ears, his mind repeated the same word over and over.
Always.
48
Amelia
Kane dragged Amelia by her hair down a long hallway. He opened a door and shoved her inside. She caught glimpses of a conference room with a large table and office chairs, a living room with fancy brocaded sofas, a large holoscreen on the far wall. The captain's quarters.
Kane pushed her through another narrow doorway. The bedroom.
He threw her on the bed, knocking her clutch out of her hand. Her head bounced hard on the mattress. Then he was on her, breathing stinking tobacco-breath in her face, yanking at the jewel-encrusted straps of her dress.
Her vision blurred. The beige ceiling tiles above her shimmered in bursting shades of pink, yellow, white. Her stomach lurched and she gagged. A migraine. She was having a migraine attack at the worst possible moment. Or maybe it was fitting. Every terrible thing coming down on her at once, like a dreadful punishment for every sin she'd ever committed.
She was going to die. Not with a bullet. A far worse way. This man was hurting her. He enjoyed hurting her. And when he was done with that, he was going to hurt her even more. She smelled it on him, in his pungent sweat, felt it in the tautness of his body, in the way he drank in her fear with those vicious, viper eyes.
Time slowed. She saw everything. The wooden bedposts. The flimsy curtains drawn over the French doors to the veranda. The black buttons of his uniform, one of them missing. Kane looming over her, his rattlesnake eyes, the enlarged pores in his skin, the cords standing out on his neck, that awful, snarling smile.
She felt everything. The nubby fabric of the comforter rubbing against her back. His hands like giant scrabbling spiders on her shoulders, her legs. And her brain—on fire, pulsing, pounding, throbbing. Her whole body trembled, shuddering against the pain and terror and revulsion.
She was alone. Abandoned. No one was coming for her. She was just a tool, a pawn to use and discard. Everyone used her. And here, finally, was the worst way to use a person. And this animal would take everything from her: her dignity. Her sense of self. Her safety. The very core of her—stolen without her consent.
Tears slipped down her cheeks as he ripped her dress.
“You awake, girl?” he growled. “Don't disappear on me. This is the best part.”
She groaned, tried to pull away. “Please . . .”
He slapped her hard in the face.
The hammering against her skull intensified. Pain throbbed in her brain, needling her scalp and the base of her neck.
Use what you have.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus. To think.
Use what you have.
She was helpless. She'd been given up, by her father, by Gabriel. They had no more use for her. They didn't see her. She thought they had—she'd tried to make them—but she was wrong.
The bright lights seared her eyes. The migraine streaked through her skull, cracking her open, splitting her into pieces. It felt like dying. Over and over again. Dying and returning to life, only to die again.
Use what you have.
Her mind tried to leave, to drift away, to escape the horror, but the pain wouldn't let her. It chained her to the present, to the bed, to what was being done and who was doing it.
But this pain she knew. This pain was her oldest, most bitter friend. A pain she suffered through, over and over. Endured. Survived. Her migraines didn't kill her. The seizures didn't kill her. She outlasted them. She beat them.
She knew pain. And she knew how to survive it. She'd survived pain her whole life.
She could do it again.
Use what you have.
Amelia opened her eyes.
Splotches of colored lights swam in her vision. But she could see enough. She could move.
She could fight.
She coiled her strength inside herself.
Then she struck. She clawed his face, catching his cheek and part of his left eyeball. He reared back, howling. She rolled to the side and launched herself off the bed.
She hit the carpet and scrambled to her hands and knees. Her dress caught in the metal corner of the springs holding up the mattress. She ripped the material free in one frantic movement, her hands shaking, fear spearing through her.
She leapt to her feet and ran for the door, half stumbling as vertigo gripped her and the floor rolled violently.
But he was behind her. He lunged and he was fast, too fast. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her back, throwing her to the floor.
Her skull hit the ground, cracking her teeth together. Fresh agony ruptured behind her eyes. He smashed his fist into her face. Everything went dark and blurry. He hovered over her, a grotesque shadow. She smelled his rage. It stung her nostrils like the stench of burning rubber, something dark and bitter.
He grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head. “You like to play rough, is that it?”
Acid surged up her throat, but she fought it down. Terror mingled with adrenaline spiked through her. But there was no time to be afraid. She gathered her strength and kneed him in the crotch.
He fell back, clutching himself. “I'll kill you!”
She rolled to the side and tried to get to her feet, but the pain gripped her head in a savage vise. Convulsions rippled through her. She fell to her knees. She'd never reach the door.
Use what you have.
She turned, frantic, clawing the carpet, scrambling on her hands and knees toward the bed. Acid churned in her gut, the wave of nausea almost knocking her flat. Her vision swam in and out of focus. She blinked furiously. Where was it? Where was it!
She heard him behind her. Coming for her. Enraged and hungry for violence, for blood.
There it was. Beneath the bed. She nearly cried out with relief.
She saw him out of the corner of her eye. Lunging for her. The flash of a blade in his hand. He leapt, lightning fast and lethal.
The world became silent. Sound drained away. She couldn't hear a thing. Could barely see. She used her hands, her sense of touch, the way she always did when the pain was a train roaring down on her, tracks quaking beneath her feet.
He was on top of her, his knife at her throat. He pressed hard, the blade slicing through her skin. His eyes gleamed, sharp and menacing. “Die, bitch.”
“You first,” she said.
She stabbed the epi-pen into his right eyeball and depressed the plunger.
49
Micah
Micah huddled in the darkness of the HVAC duct, his muscles aching. His eyes burned and watered from the remnants of the tear gas, his mouth, tongue, and throat felt seared from the particles that filtered through his paper mask. But he’d escaped the worst of it. He waited, tense and trembling, utterly helpless as he listened to the fierce gunfight below him.
It seemed like an eternity before the grate screwed off and dim blue light radiated into the duct. He crawled forward with his elbows and pushed his head out of the vent. Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him the rest of the way.
He dropped from the vent to the floor, landing unceremoniously on his ass. Jericho hauled him to his feet. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
He doubled over, coughing and spitting. He rubbed his face, and his hand came back smudged gray with dirt and dust. He wiped his filthy glasses on a semi-clean corner of his shirt and slipped them back on.
The smoke had dissipated quickly. The room stank of vomit. There were bodies. His heart seized. “What happened?”
“Two escaped with Declan Black as a hostage.” Jericho's nostrils flared, his eyes jagged with rage. “We couldn't risk harm to Black. Watched the assholes just walk out of here.” He explained how he'd followed them at a safe distance up to the top deck. A helicopter hovered over the lido deck, a ladder whipping in the wind. Black's captors had escaped, abandoning the ship and its passengers—including their own men—to burn.
Schneider�
�s men freed the hostages and moved them to the hall. They were limp, unconscious, except for a woman who coughed violently, her eyes streaming with tears from the gas.
Schneider stood at the bridge console, working on getting communications back up and steering them out of the storm. The ship still rolled, but not as wildly as before. The rain slashed the windows, but with less ferocity.
Schneider hit one long blast to signal an emergency evacuation, then punched the red button on the PA system. “This is CSO Schneider speaking. We have retaken the bridge. Repeat, we have retaken the bridge. All crew report to your emergency evacuation stations. Passengers, as soon as it is safe to do so, please make your way to the starboard lifeboats on Deck Four.
“And for those of you who have attacked this ship and the good people on board, the U.S. Navy has been notified, and they are en route. There are no boats coming for you. I repeat, your leadership has abandoned you, escaping via chopper. If you release your hostages and make your way immediately to the portside lifeboats, no one on this ship will attempt to stop you.”
“You and Silas head for the lifeboats,” Jericho said. “We're going to take the muster stations and free the remaining hostages.”
“You better hurry.” Schneider swiped a screen on the console, his frown deepening. “Fire zones one, two, and five are compromised. The explosions have already flooded two compartments. More than three, and we sink. I’ve closed the watertight doors below deck and the fire-resistant doors, but the fires are hot and spreading. We don’t have much time.”
“We'll get rid of those bastards one way or another,” Jericho said.
Micah opened his mouth, about to ask about Gabriel, but he hesitated. If they knew his brother was a terrorist, would they continue to trust him? Would they suspect him, too? Or worse, just shoot him to be safe? No. He would have to find out himself.
A sharp, metallic stench filled his nostrils, mixing with the stink of gunpowder. He forced his gaze to the floor. Several bodies were scattered around the bridge. Nine were dead. Another mortally wounded, sure to bleed out in the next few minutes.
His stomach curdled as he stepped over the bodies, searching each one for Gabriel. He wasn't there. Micah checked and rechecked each body. Two more lay crumpled behind the main console. Neither of them were Gabriel. His brother was not among the dead. Impossible. He was certain he'd heard Gabriel's voice.
“Looking for someone?”
Micah stiffened.
Silas slouched against the wall, staring at him with those dark, penetrating eyes. He'd been watching him the whole time.
His stomach dropped. “Why would you say that?”
Silas only smirked. “He's down the corridor.”
Micah didn't ask who. Silas knew. The way he'd been looking at him all night, scrutinizing him. But now there was no confusion. Just smug, contemptuous recognition.
“Is he—?”
“Restrained and under guard. So he can stand trial for his crimes. But he's alive.” Silas arched his brow. “That a good thing? Or bad?”
Anger shot through him. Silas hit much too close to the mark. Micah didn't even know what he wanted. Alive. He wanted his brother alive. Beyond that, he had no idea. He shouldered past Silas into the corridor.
Four rescued hostages slumped against the wall. One man moaned, clutching a bullet wound in his stomach. The other two appeared unconscious.
And there he was. A dozen yards further down the corridor. Hands cuffed in front of him, his crisp officer's uniform sullied with blood, some blotches faded to brown, some still bright red. One of Schneider's men stood guard several feet away.
Micah’s heart clenched. His brother. The terrorist.
Could he go to him? Could he even bear to confront Gabriel, to look into that face he knew as well as his own, had loved more than himself? He blinked, fighting back the wave of grief and despair.
Someone grabbed his pant leg. One of the hostages, her dark hair wild around her terrified face. He recognized her despite the blood and the mascara smudging her cheeks. “Mrs. Black.”
“You were in the Oasis dining room. When it happened.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said in a strangled voice.
Silas crouched in front of his mother. “Are you okay?”
Mother and son looked at each other. Mrs. Black's face held a complicated expression Micah couldn't read: a blend of relief, hope, fear, and regret. She lifted her hand as if she were reaching for Silas. It fluttered for a moment in the space between them before she let it drop into her lap. She rubbed the red marks on her wrists instead, smiling shakily. “Silas. I've been praying every second for you and Amelia. I'm—I'm so thankful you're okay.”
“You too.”
“It was horrible. I was so scared, every second. And then he took her—” She looked frantically from Silas to Micah, as if she were waking from a terrible nightmare only to realize it was still happening. “He took her!”
Silas stiffened. “Took who?”
“Amelia! She was here, in the bridge. They hurt her—” Her mouth contorted. “That monster took her.”
His chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. The fear that nagged at him in the ducts settled in his gut like a block of ice. Micah left Amelia in the Oceanarium. He'd believed Gabriel wouldn't hurt her. Not an innocent girl. He couldn't have.
But Gabriel did. He brought her to the bridge and handed her over to brutal thugs. Micah was so naïve, stupidly trusting in the brother he thought he knew. But maybe he never did. Maybe you could never truly know another person beyond what they wanted you to see. Or beyond what you wanted to see in them.
“Where is she?” Silas asked, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.
“I don't know!” his mother said.
“Think! You were there!”
“I don't know!”
“What did he look like?”
“He—he was big—strong. He had eyes like . . . like he was doing things to you, in his mind. Oh, Silas. He's going to kill her!” She covered her mouth with her hands, stifling a sob.
Silas leapt to his feet and turned to Micah. “Where would you go, if you were going to—” He grimaced, unable to finish the sentence.
Micah bit the inside of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood. “I don’t know where he’d take her, but I know someone who would.”
He strode down the corridor. The ship jerked and he steadied himself against the wall. Fury rose in him, blotting out the pain, the betrayal. He would mourn later.
Gabriel's eyes were closed. Micah kicked his leg. “Wake up!”
His eyes fluttered open. “Micah. You're safe.”
The affection in his gaze was like a savage punch to the gut. “No thanks to you.”
Gabriel lifted his bound hands and tilted his chin at the guard standing a dozen feet away, talking into his walkie-talkie. “Tell him you'll relieve him. He doesn't know who you are. We can get out of here, grab one of the lifeboats before anyone even knows we're gone.”
Micah’s heart pulsed like a bruise. He could hardly bear to look Gabriel in the face. Disgust and revulsion warred with loyalty, tenderness, love. And grief, over everything, like a towering tsunami bearing down on him. “You did this. You helped kill all these people.”
“I'd take it back if I could, I swear to you. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake.”
He couldn't listen to Gabriel's wounded voice. Couldn't let his emotions get in the way. “Where's Amelia?”
A shadow passed over his brother's face.
“Where is she? Answer me!”
“Already dead,” Gabriel said in an agonized voice.
“Gabriel! Please!”
“Captain's quarters. He took her to the captain's quarters. But it's too late for her, Micah. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this. Never. You have to believe me—”
“I did believe you. I believed you wouldn’t actually hurt anyone. But you brought her here. You let them take her.”
Gabriel’s face contorted
. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
Micah stood and backed away.
“Just us?” Desperation shone in Gabriel’s eyes.
The word always turned to ash on his tongue. He couldn't listen anymore. His heart would shatter if he did. “You’re my brother. You’ll always be my brother. I love you, but I can’t save you.”
“Micah!”
“I’m sorry.”
It felt like a betrayal, turning his back on his only family, the brother he loved more than himself. It felt like losing his own soul. Like everything he'd ever loved crumbled to dust in his hands.
“Let's go!” he called to Silas, his voice breaking.
Silas came toward him, hefting his M4. He pointed it at Gabriel. “Aren't you a traitor like your filthy rat of a brother? Why should I listen to you?”
Micah swallowed back the howl of outrage and grief and horror. “You want to save her?”
Silas scowled, but he nodded.
“Micah, I'm sorry—” Gabriel pleaded. “Forgive me.”
But he and Silas were already gone.
50
Willow
Willow clutched the rifle to her chest with one hand and gripped Benjie's small fingers in the other. She led the caravan down several flights of stairs. Nadira was behind her, the other two staff members taking up the rear.
A massive explosion shook the walls and trembled the stairs. The lights flickered then went out, plunging them into darkness. Several children cried out.
“It's okay,” Nadira said.
“Lo Lo!” Benjie cried, squeezing her hand.
“Just wait.” A moment later, the dim emergency lights along the floor switched on. Willow
blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the murky gloom. Suddenly every shadow seemed alive, taunting her. “Okay, let's go. Hurry!”
They followed her down another set of stairs to Deck Six. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils. She leaned over the stairwell railing and glimpsed a dark gray haze seeping up the stairs from below.
