by Kyla Stone
That way was blocked.
The ship lurched violently and she stumbled, holding onto the wall for balance. They could take the royal promenade to the aft stairwell down to the lifeboats on Deck Four. She rounded the corner fast and was already several steps into the foyer when she froze.
Movement. A glimpse of a shadow to the right.
She gestured wildly for Nadira to stop. Nadira retreated to the stairs, but Willow and Benjie didn't have time. Her gaze spun, frantically searching for safety. The elevator alcove was across the foyer. It was the best option.
She yanked Benjie's hand and dashed across the open space, rounding the corner of the alcove. She pressed her finger to her lips. Benjie nodded, eyes wide with terror.
Willow peeked around the alcove wall. Nadira and the children were out of sight. They must be huddled on the stairs, blocked from view by the stairwell wall. Safe, for the moment. If whoever was coming just walked straight through, without turning to the stairwell to the left or the elevators to the right, the shadows might hide them. They might survive this.
She saw the blood. Directly illuminated by the emergency floor lighting. Her bloody footprints, dark and conspicuous on the gold carpet. The cuts on her feet from the coffee bar display case. They'd been bleeding all this time, and she hadn't even noticed. The prints led straight to the alcove they were huddled in.
The sound of heavy footsteps drew closer. She shrank back against the elevator door, her heart thudding in her chest. Benjie covered his mouth with his hands. He stared at her with wide-eyed desperation, his face reddening. He had to cough. No, no, no. Not now. Please not now.
She pressed her hands over his. He shook from the effort of holding it in. Her own throat closed like a vise, cutting off her breath.
The footsteps stopped. He'd seen the blood. This very second, his gaze was following the footprints straight to the alcove.
And then he was in front of her, standing only a few yards away. Even in the dim lighting, she saw see him clearly. He wasn't wearing a ski mask. He had blonde hair and a long, horsey face. He lifted his rifle.
“Stay back!” Hopefully Nadira and the other kids would run back up the stairs while the terrorist's attention was on her. But she couldn't worry about that now. Not with the muzzle of an M4 pointed straight at her.
She swallowed, her heart punched into her throat. Her palms were damp, Benjie's hand slipping inside hers. Benjie's cough exploded from his chest. He choked, half-coughing, half-sobbing. She clenched his hand tighter.
“You don't have to do this!” Her voice shook. “The ship is burning. We're all just trying to escape with our lives. You can let us go.”
“None of you deserve to live,” he spat. He advanced, mumbling curses under his breath and jabbing the gun at them like a spear. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. Blood stains splattered his shirt and smeared his neck. But he had no wounds. It wasn’t his blood.
He was going to kill them. Not because he had to. Because he could.
Time seemed to slow. Terror screamed at her to run. And maybe she could. She was fast. She could weave and dodge. Maybe she'd get away. But Benjie wouldn't. He was too small, his legs too short. He wouldn't be able to escape.
Unless there was a distraction. Unless this vicious bastard had a more appetizing target. She could save herself. But she couldn't save them both. The decision took only a moment. She knew what her mom would want her to do. Take care of them. She was Ate. It was her responsibility.
“When I tell you,” she said softly, squeezing Benjie's hand. “I want you to run. Don't stop. Pretend it's magic. Pretend if you're fast enough, you'll disappear.”
I love you. And I'm sorry. But there wasn't time to say those things. She let go of Benjie's hand.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her gaze never left the terrorist's face.
Fear churned in her gut, but also something else. Resignation. And something like peace. Take care of them. To save her family, she was willing to do anything.
This was it. Now or never.
She stepped in front of her brother.
51
Micah
Micah and Silas raced down the starboard corridor to the third door, marked with a gold placard titled, ‘Captain Liebenberg.’
He tried the handle. “It's locked. Schneider will have a master key.”
“There's no time!” Silas rammed his shoulder against the door. It shuddered but didn't give.
Inside, someone screamed.
Micah’s breath stilled in his chest. They'd found her. She was alive. But the terror in that scream iced his veins.
“Amelia!” Silas shouted. He pounded his fists against the door. He backed up and ran at the door again.
“Use your rifle!”
Silas swung the M4 around and smashed it against the old-fashioned brass door handle. It broke off after two tries.
Micah and Silas kicked the door until it crashed open.
There was a living room area—sofas and a coffee table and a desk in the corner, the opened door to what he assumed was the bedroom, but his brain barely registered any of these things.
Two bodies grappled on the floor. For a horrific moment, he couldn't tell what was happening. Then his vision focused.
Amelia crouched over the body of a man. Kane. He was moaning in pain, clutching at his face. She stabbed him with something, screaming in terror and rage. He shoved her off with a flailing arm, but she hurled herself at him, stabbing him again and again in the neck, chest, and shoulders.
Silas ran to her. He grabbed her under her arms and lifted her off Kane.
She howled, turning and lunging at Silas, her weapon clutched in her hand. Silas caught hold of her wrist before she could stab him.
“Amelia! Stop! It's me! It's me!”
Her scream died in her throat. She blinked, recognition dawning in her face. She sagged against him. They collapsed to their knees, Silas drawing her close, murmuring something into her hair.
He pulled her back at arm's length to examine her.
Her dress was torn in several places and ripped off her shoulder. Deep bruises shaped like handprints marred her neck. Blood bubbled from a shallow cut at the base of her throat. A purplish bruise formed over her right eye, and her teeth were smeared bright red.
To Micah's surprise, Silas grinned at her. “What a mess you are, princess.”
She half-laughed, half-choked. Her face contorted, like she was about to dissolve into tears. But she didn't. Her mouth flattened, her eyes going hard. “He was going to kill me.”
“I know.”
“I stopped him.”
“You did.”
She pulled away from him and stood, swaying on her feet. Silas jumped up and steadied her. “Come on. Let's go.”
She shoved her hair out of her face. “He needs to die.”
They both looked at Kane, bloodied and unconscious. Micah kicked at the man's arm, knocking it away from his face. Blood and clear goopy liquid oozed out of his right eye.
“You did that, sister?” Silas said in awe.
“I did.” Her voice was stronger now. She lifted her chin and stared at her brother. “I'm going to kill him.”
“No, you're not.”
“Yes. I am.”
She tried to pull away, but Silas gripped her upper arm. “You've been through enough. You saved yourself. But you don't have to do this. I’ll do it.”
They stared at each other for a long, silent minute, so much passing between them that Micah felt like an intruder.
Micah glanced away, his gaze landing on Kane. “Silas!”
Kane writhed on the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head, white foam bubbling out of his mouth. After a moment, he went still, his body twisted grotesquely.
Amelia stared at the body, her face white. “Is he dead?”
Silas checked, pressing his fingers against Kane’s neck. He nodded.
Amelia lifted her chin. “Serves that asshole right.”
&
nbsp; Acid roiled in Micah’s stomach, but he fought it back. He needed to be strong, needed to be brave. They weren't safe yet. “It’s time to go.”
“Micah, help Amelia,” Silas said. “I’ve got the gun.”
Amelia allowed Micah to put his arm around her shoulders. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but she still winced. The ship jerked and they staggered. Micah steadied her. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him for the first time, a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “Last time we met, didn't I say that to you?”
He pressed her black purse-thing into her trembling hands. “About that. I never should have left you. I should've—”
“It's done and forgotten.”
Deep shame filled him, as if he alone were responsible for his brother's actions, for all the terrible things that had happened, for what Kane did to Amelia, for all the dead mothers and fathers and children. Because in a way, he was. He let his love blind him. He’d believed in the goodness in people, in his brother. And now, surrounded by all this death and darkness, he didn’t know what he believed anymore.
He led Amelia out of the captain's quarters and into the hallway. “I should've done things differently. If only I—”
“Micah.” Her voice was soft. “I trusted him, too.”
He nodded grimly, but the shame didn’t dissipate. It never would.
Before they reached the stairwell, another massive explosion rocked the ship.
52
Willow
Willow stepped in front of her brother, shielding him with her body. She lifted the rifle with both hands, gripping the barrel and raising it like a club.
“Run!” she cried.
A bang exploded in her ears.
Willow screamed.
The terrorist stumbled, his face contorting in a stunned grimace. His gun wavered as he stared down at the red spreading across his chest.
He staggered, then fell to the floor.
A moment later, Silas Black stepped out from around the corner. “Well, well. If it isn't the little thief.” He smirked, cradling a semi-automatic in his arms. “You do know that’s not how you’re supposed to use a gun, right?”
Her legs turned to water and she crumpled to her knees. Benjie raced back to her, bursting into tears. She dropped the gun and wrapped him in a fierce hug, both their bodies trembling. She looked up at Silas. “Thanks for the tip. And you know, saving us.”
Silas looked down at the body, nudging the guy’s arm. “I needed the target practice.” His voice was light, but his face was pale, his lips a thin, bloodless line.
Benjie coughed, wheezing for air. She stroked his hair. “Here, get your inhaler from your backpack. It's okay, everything's okay.”
“Technically, it's not.” Silas reached down and grabbed the dead terrorist's rifle.
Two other people limped around the corner behind Silas, one in the standard dark-clothed terrorist garb. She leapt to her feet, pushing her brother behind her.
Silas rolled his eyes. “Relax. Meet my sister and some guy. I forgot his name.”
“I'm Micah.” He was the same waiter from that first day, the one who'd offered her a flute of champagne. He'd looked so boyishly handsome in his tux and white gloves. Now he was covered in smudges of dirt and blood. His arm looped around Amelia Black's shoulder, holding her up. Her face and neck were bruised and bloodied, her hair a tangled mess around her face.
“Is she okay?”
“None of us are okay,” Silas said.
“I'll be fine.” Amelia’s voice was raw, but she lifted her head and met Willow's gaze.
“We need to go, guys,” Micah said. “We’re headed for the lifeboats. Come on.”
“Just a second.” Willow called for the rest of the kids and the caregivers to come down the stairs. Several small, terrified faces peered around the corner of the stairwell.
Silas scowled. “You've got to be joking. There's no way in hell we're babysitting a bunch of snotty-faced rug rats on a sinking death-ship. Just, no.”
“We can't abandon little kids,” Micah said. “We'll figure it out.”
“They'll slow us down and make too much noise. They'll get us all killed. There are still psychopaths all over this ship.” He kicked at the dead man's body at his feet. “Enter exhibit A.”
“You're the psychopath!” Willow hissed. He was just as much of a jerkwad as she remembered.
Silas's face darkened. He took a menacing step toward her. “You forget just who knows how to use a gun here, thief.”
“We’re taking them with us,” Micah said. “No discussion.”
“Fine. We’ll leave you with the brats. Have fun.”
“Silas.” Amelia's voice was hoarse. But her brother stopped. A look passed between them. “We're going. All of us.”
The PA system cackled: “This is CSO Schneider. We are abandoning ship. I repeat, abandon ship.”
Another explosion trembled the floors, the walls, the ceiling. A couple of the kids stumbled and fell. Willow leaned against the elevator for support and pulled herself up. The floor seemed to slide beneath her feet. Not rolling. Tilting.
“I smell smoke,” Benjie said in a quavering voice.
He was right. They all smelled it, a stench like burning rubber, something foul and dangerous.
Fifty yards down the royal promenade on the right, the heavy fire-resistant door that led to the next section hadn’t closed properly. Fire burst into the promenade, black smoke billowing toward them. Flames licked the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
“Time to go!” Micah shouted.
There was a loud groaning, scraping sound, and the floor tilted again. The ship was listing.
Willow grabbed Benjie’s hand. “Let’s go! Now!”
The group half-ran, half-staggered left along the royal promenade, toward the aft stairwell. Shards of glass and chunks of wall and ceiling littered the floor. The gold mermaids in the fountain were punctured with bullet holes. Behind the fountain, the grand staircase was fractured, the glass spidered with jagged cracks. Several stairs were missing, the others shattered.
Smoke clouded the air in a murky, deepening haze. The stench was stronger now, stinging Willow’s nostrils, gagging her throat. She stepped over a splintered painting, what used to be an authentic Jackson Pollock.
They edged around an enormous fallen chandelier, a motionless body trapped beneath the broken crystals. The group reached the closed fire-resistant door between them and the aft stairwell. Micah pushed the green button. A red light over the door flashed and the alarm blared.
Willow turned to Micah. “Weren't you the one who promised me all my wishes would come true?”
Micah snorted. “We might have oversold ourselves a bit.”
“So did the Titanic.” Willow grabbed Benjie with her free hand and pushed him through the opening. “Dream vacation, my ass. Let’s get the hell off this ship.”
By the time Willow and the others made it to Deck Four, dozens of panicking passengers crowded the deck, impatiently waiting to board the lifeboats. Several officers and a few men in plainclothes flanked either side, weapons up and ready in case of another attack. Crew members prepared the lifeboats and handed out life preservers.
The deck was slick and pitched beneath her feet, tilting downward. The rain battered her head. It should have been dark without lights, but tongues of fire burned through the outer decks on the floors above them, casting everything in an eerie orange glow.
Flitting, shouting shadows surrounded them. She gripped Benjie's hand tighter and stumbled through the surging crowd, searching every face she passed for her mom. But she wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere.
Instead, Willow bumped into Celeste. The girl just stood there, her wet hair curtaining her face, her eyes shiny with terror.
“Get in line for a lifeboat!” Willow shook Celeste's shoulders. Celeste nodded dully.
“They won't let us through!” Nadira cried.
Micah helped them shove a path throu
gh the panicked, jostling crowd to the closest lifeboat.
“Children first,” the crew member manning the boat ordered, stopping a blonde, middle-aged woman from climbing aboard.
“Do you know who I am?” Her mascara dripped down her cheeks, her hair plastered to her skull.
“No one cares.” Willow pushed the woman aside and lifted Benjie onto the boat.
The ship shifted with a great groan, tilting at a steeper angle. Benjie's legs slipped into the gap between the lifeboat and the side of the ship. He jerked out of her grasp. She grabbed at his arms, but her fingers couldn't grip his slick skin.
“Benjie!”
From inside the lifeboat, someone lunged forward, grabbed Benjie by his backpack, and hauled him up and over the lip of the hatch. He fell in a heap on the floor of the boat.
A familiar face peered out at her.
“Finn!” she gasped.
“Come on in.” He grinned crookedly.
“Hurry up!” someone shouted.
“Let us on!” Bodies jostled her. Someone elbowed her hard in her spine. Hands clawed and shoved at her back.
“Passengers first, not crew!”
Then Micah was there, standing between her and the crowd. “Go!”
Willow nearly slipped as she and Nadira helped the rest of the children. Finn leaned out of the hatch and grabbed each kid, easily lifting them to safety.
“Climb in!” Micah pushed Nadira into the boat.
“But my mom—!” Could Willow really escape not knowing if her mom was dead or alive? She could still be on the ship. What if she was trapped somewhere and needed help? What if—
Gunshots blasted from somewhere above them. Everyone screamed. The crowd throbbed, slipping and skidding across the slanting deck. Several people knocked against the railing, lost their balance, and fell, plunging into the ocean below.
“There's no time!” Micah shoved her. “Go!”
Maybe her mom had made it onto one of the other lifeboats. Maybe . . . but her hope dwindled with every explosion that rent the sky. Benjie. She needed to stay with Benjie. It's what her mom would want.
