by Kyla Stone
Micah scrambled into a crouch. He untucked his shirt and wiped his throbbing, bloody hand. He peeked over the seats. Gabriel headed up the center aisle.
“He's coming! Hurry!” He gestured for her to follow him. He'd free her hands later.
But she didn't move.
“Let's go!”
She dropped the knife. “Even if I got away, he'd come after me. I'm his mission, remember? You're not. You go. Get help.”
He wanted to shout, I'm not leaving you! But he didn't. He recognized the truth of her words in the span it took her to speak them. “There is goodness in him. Help him find it.”
She stared at him, tendrils of white-blonde hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. He didn’t want to leave her, but he had no choice. Gabriel wouldn’t hurt her.
“I'll come back for you, I promise.” He slipped the knife into his pocket and sprang to his feet.
He’d sprinted halfway to the side entrance when Gabriel spotted him. “Stop!”
Micah turned around, his hands in the air. Blood dripped down his arm. The stinging pain centered him, kept him focused. He took a step backward. Then another.
“I said stop!” Gabriel stood next to Amelia, legs splayed, gun pointed straight at him. “You aren't going anywhere.”
“You going to shoot me, too?” His voice shook. Gabriel wouldn't hurt him. Would never hurt him. And yet, thirty minutes ago, he'd believed Gabriel would never kill anyone, would never be a part of something like this. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. “Is that what your cause means to you?”
“You don't understand. I can keep you safe here.”
Micah took another step backward. The metal crash bar pressed into his back. He couldn’t choose safety, not at a time like this. His mother’s words echoed in his mind. Be good. Be brave. His heart was a ball of fire in his chest. “I'm going to help these people. Shoot me if you have to, but I'm going.”
“You don't know what you're doing!”
Micah stole one last glance at Amelia. Only the top of her head showed beyond the rows of stadium seats. Had he done the right thing by letting her stay behind? It was more dangerous outside these doors. Gabriel made a bad choice, but he wasn't a killer. Micah had to believe that. “You can stop this, Gabriel.”
Micah turned and fled.
He half-expected a bullet in the back. But it never came.
His brother let him go.
23
Gabriel
Gabriel held the gun with slick, trembling hands, his finger on the trigger. His pulse thundered in his ears. Sweat trickled down his neck.
He sighted his own brother's back as he walked away, headed up the aisle between the stadium seats of the Oceanarium.
Micah's uniform shirt was untucked, hanging lopsided over his belt. Only Gabriel knew what lay beneath the shirt, the scars carved into Micah’s right shoulder blade from the hoverboarding accident. His gun wavered, the memory pulsing through him, sharp and painful.
The park had been in a ritzy, upscale neighborhood, one much nicer than theirs. Gabriel and Micah hadn’t belonged. They weren't wanted. It was a mistake to go.
A bigger mistake to bring his brother, who at twelve was still thin and gangly. He was too small, too vulnerable. The other boys sniffed hunger and need off them like a wolf pack detecting the weakest prey. The boys left Gabriel alone—at least physically.
Four older, crueler boys had pushed Micah off the top of the cement half-pipe. Gabriel still remembered the agonizing shriek as Micah's small body tumbled against the unforgiving cement, his bare back and right shoulder scraping all the way down.
Gabriel dropped his board and raced to Micah, gathering him in his arms and cradling him like a baby. “You're okay, you're okay.”
But there was blood. So much blood, slick and wet on his hands and arms. Micah's chubby cheeks too pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps and whimpers.
“We spray for cockroaches here,” taunted the biggest boy at the top of the half-pipe, a white kid with a hooked nose and ugly, hateful eyes. The others laughed and hurled their own insults.
The boys' jeers ignited Gabriel’s brain with rage. He wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. To cave their skulls in with a swing of his board, or a baseball bat.
But blood gushed through his fingers. He could see pink muscle beneath Micah's shredded skin. He needed a doctor, though their dad would only be able to afford the corner clinic, and even that would take a month of his salary.
“I'm coming back for you!” He shot the boys one last murderous look, memorizing their faces. Then he took off for home, twelve long blocks away. The merciless sun beat down on them. His brother's weight strained his arms and shoulders, his grip slipping on Micah's bloody skin.
The guilt stabbed him as every jarring, excruciating step caused Micah more pain. The dull, threatening buzz of the neighborhood patrol drone following them down the street. Not because they were victims. Because they were intruders.
Gabriel went back for those boys, just like he’d promised. He’d cased the neighborhood for days, ferreting out the hidden camera and sensor locations, timing the drones, and stalking the lead bully, the insolent fool with the hooked nose.
He knew the consequences if the drones caught his revenge on their surveillance feeds. But he was patient. He waited for his moment.
Every time he returned from school and saw the wounds on Micah’s back, his resolve strengthened. His hatred sprouted, entwining with a dark and ugly rage.
When the moment came, he didn’t hesitate. He beat the rat-faced bully with his own hoverboard, breaking the boy’s jaw in three places.
Scratched and bruised, Gabriel came home that night with bloody knuckles and a loathing in his heart that only grew stronger with each passing year. When Simeon found out, he took Gabriel under his wing, nurturing his hatred, his rage, and his skills.
Until he was ready. Until today.
Gabriel blinked back to the present. It had started with his brother. With protecting Micah.
The side door slammed with a finality that echoed in his ears. He lowered the gun. He couldn't do it. It was his job to protect Micah. He could never hurt his brother. It was his weakness, just as Simeon had warned him.
The five hundred empty, plastic-sheathed seats stretched in front of him, judging him silently. Micah didn't understand. He would never understand why Gabriel and the New Patriots needed to act with violence.
All other avenues had failed repeatedly, for years. It took strength to stand up. Courage to fight to change things. And an iron will.
Micah was soft. It was Gabriel's fault. He'd protected him, had kept him sweet, innocent, and loving. In the process, he'd failed his brother completely.
And now that same weakness permeated him. He’d let love cloud his judgement, allowed Micah to escape into the bowels of the ship. And Micah wouldn't just squirrel away and hide. He was soft, but he was no coward.
Gabriel’s chest tightened. Micah would do something stupid and get himself killed. He might snarl up the whole mission. For half a second, Gabriel thought about chasing after him.
Why had he gotten Micah on this ship in the first place? Because Simeon wanted him. Because Simeon believed Micah would join their cause. Only Gabriel had always known, deep down, that his brother was weak. He would never fight. He would never kill.
They're killing people. But there were always casualties in war, just like Simeon said. Gabriel had to be strong. He had to be willing to do whatever it took. Whatever the price.
Just like he did when he protected Micah all those years ago. Just like he did when he worked with the New Patriots to bomb the Illinois capitol, the Boston municipal courthouse, the palatial Unity Coalition headquarters. Though, those buildings had been empty but for sani-bots.
He gritted his teeth as he turned toward his prisoner.
Amelia Black sat on the floor, her beautiful dress rumpled and stained with red.
“Why are you bleeding?”
>
She stared up at him with those unnerving ice-blue eyes. “It's your brother's blood.”
His gut twisted. “Is he hurt? How bad?”
“You just had a gun pointed at him.”
“I'm aware of that. Why is he bleeding?”
“He had a knife. I cut him loose. But since I was tied up, I accidentally cut him.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Dolphins, whales, and stingrays swam in the watery glow surrounding them. The ocean lashed against the viewing area windows. A tiny holographic fish darted in front of him and flashed away.
He stared at the ocean, his eyes dry and gritty. He'd been longing for this day for months. For years. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. A pain stabbing deep. That horrified look of shock and betrayal in Micah’s eyes.
“Why didn't you stop him?” Amelia asked.
“I wouldn't shoot my own brother. I'm not a monster.” He shoved the pain, the anxiety, the questions—all of it—out of his mind. Pain was weakness. Emotion was weakness. He couldn't be weak. Not now. “Micah's nothing. He doesn't matter.”
“You could've run after him.”
“I couldn't leave you,” he said darkly. “Simeon made you my mission.”
She winced. Satisfaction flashed through him, then guilt. Everything that happened between them was simply that—a mission, a duty. He couldn’t acknowledge the feelings stirring in his gut. They weren’t real.
What he’d felt when she fell—a stab of fear, concern, compassion—and then later, when she’d first smiled at him after her near-seizure, small and sad and completely vulnerable. It had undone him.
But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
He made his voice hard, indifferent. “Not that it wasn’t an enjoyable mission. It definitely had its perks.”
She lifted her chin. Not the reaction he expected. “You aren't the first person to use me. And you can be sure you won't be the last. Trust me, I'm used to the likes of you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You think you're different from them?” Her mouth twisted in defiance. “Different from the power-hungry game players upstairs? You're playing your own game. And you use whomever you have to in the process.”
“I'm nothing like them,” he scoffed. “They're corrupt. Soulless. Evil.”
“You're keeping me out of the way until your boss decides he needs me. For what? To get my father to spill whatever secrets you want? How do you think he's going to do that? He's going to—” She took a breath. “He's going to torture me.”
“No, he's not.” But doubt pricked his mind. They're killing people. He rubbed the back of his neck, ran his hand over the stubble along his jaw. “Simeon isn't like that. We aren't like that.”
“Then why are you down here babysitting me? What other possible end game is there? I'm leverage against my father. He's a hostage because they want something from him. When you drag me to the bridge, they're going to put a gun to my head.”
“Simeon would never shoot you.”
“Would you?”
He wanted to say, Of course not. He had the sudden urge to lean in and wrap her in his arms, to kiss the fear off her face. What an idiotic thought. Furious at himself, he scrubbed it from his mind.
The romance was manufactured, and the feelings with it. They'd dispensed with that pretense.
“You said this was a war.”
“What of it?”
“All wars require collateral damage.”
Saliva filled his mouth. He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“So, you'll kill innocent people?”
“I don't kill innocents.”
Her eyes flashed in the bluish light. “Who gets to decide who's innocent? You?”
“Do you know how many thousands—how many millions—have suffered needlessly? Died needlessly? All because of greed and corruption.”
“You didn't answer my question. Who gets to decide?”
Her questions irritated him in ways he couldn't explain. Simeon had said no one was innocent. Simeon said collateral damage was always the cost of revolution, of freedom. Gabriel believed that with all his heart. Didn’t he?
He couldn't think clearly with her voice in his head. Everything was muddled. He needed to be clear. He needed to be smart. He was a soldier, a warrior.
This was the truth. No one was innocent. Especially not him.
24
Micah
The sound of breaking glass shattered Micah's concentration. He froze.
He was on his way to the starboard side of Deck Four to reach the lifeboats. He headed for the mid-ship stairwell on Deck Four. He’d passed the Jazz Lounge, the comedy club, and the Blaze disco lounge with the photoluminescent walls.
The eight-thousand square foot Undersea Paradise Casino loomed before him.
More breaking glass. This time from behind him.
He rushed blindly into the casino. He raced past red velvet gaming tables featuring Blackjack, Caribbean Stud Poker, Baccarat, and Roulette. He stumbled over one of the tufted leather chairs, cursing silently as it crashed to the floor.
His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline spiking through his veins. He was an exposed target.
He eased around a giant holographic spinning prize wheel and dove behind the first set of slot machines. Hundreds of machines bunched in groups of six or ten like a blinking, jangling maze.
Though the casino was empty, the slot machines still glowed, their sleek panels lit up with rotating holos of cherries, dice, stars, and triple sevens. He leaned against one, the metal cooling his back, the holoscreen boasting '3000 Chances to Win!'
He strained to hear over the clanging, spinning sound effects and the frantic banging of his own heart.
Nothing.
He crept deeper into the electronic jungle, scrambling from one bank of slot machines to the next. He stepped over several dead bodies, begging their forgiveness in his mind.
An elderly woman in a beautiful scarlet gown crumpled on her stool, her glassy eyes staring at him, unseeing. He inched around the stool, careful not to disturb her body.
Voices came from the front of the casino.
His breath stilled in his chest. He crouched beside the body, hunching himself into as small a form as possible.
He gripped the knife in both hands. It wouldn't do much against a semi-automatic or a pulse gun. It was all he had. But could he attack another human being, even to defend himself?
He didn’t want to die here, bleeding out like an animal. His mom had faced her death with courage. But he wasn’t as strong or as brave as her. His faith wasn’t as strong.
He was afraid. Terrified. He wasn't ready. There were so many things he'd never done. He'd never gotten a chance to live yet. He’d never fallen in love. He'd never—
Movement on his left. A chill zipped up his spine. He whipped his head around.
One of the terrorists squatted in front of the bank of slot machines to his left. He wore dark clothes with combat gear and a black mask pulled over his face. He cradled a rifle in his arms.
Micah shrank against the stool, his back bumping the woman's still-warm body. Her body toppled from the stool and landed on the carpet with a dull thud. He flinched, fear throbbing through him.
The terrorist still hadn't moved. He waited for something.
“You heard that?” The guttural voice was closer now, only a dozen yards away.
“Nah, man.”
“I swear I heard something.”
Micah could hear their footsteps over the clattering, clanging slot machines. They were close.
The terrorist across from Micah rose into a crouch, lifting his weapon. Micah flinched.
Two men rounded the corner. They aimed their weapons at Micah, their eyes lit with blood lust. “So many rats on this ship.” One of them shoved his gun in Micah's face.
Terror roared in his ears. His veins turned to ice. He couldn't move now even if he'd wanted to.
The gun shots blasted Micah
's ear drums, vibrating through his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the explosion of pain. Waiting for death.
But it didn't come.
“Boy.”
He didn't breathe. He didn't think. He waited to die.
“You think this is a good time for a nap, boy?”
He forced himself to open his eyes. The two men who'd just had their guns trained on him lay crumpled on the ground, blood staining the carpet beneath them. The third terrorist stood over him, his rifle angled toward the floor.
“W-what just happened?”
The man pulled up his ski mask.
His brown skin gleamed in the light, sweat beading his brow. He rubbed his square, clean-shaven jaw with the back of his hand. “Ed Jericho.”
Micah’s lungs deflated. He stared up in shock, not quite believing he was still alive. “Declan Black's security guy?”
“You got a name?” Jericho’s voice was deep, with the hint of a Nigerian accent.
“M-Micah.”
Two figures appeared behind Jericho. The first was a slim, bearded Indian man in his early forties dressed in the same stolen combat gear. Micah recognized him as Raj Patel, one of the security officers who worked with Gabriel.
The second was a boy a few years younger than Micah. He was tall and wiry, with short dark hair and a sullen, brooding face. The son of Declan Black.
Patel clapped him on the back. “Glad to see you, Rivera. Have you seen your brother?”
Micah bit the inside of his cheeks. He hated to lie, but he couldn’t reveal his brother’s location, no matter what he’d done. They’d kill Gabriel if they knew. “Um, not lately, sir.”
“That's too bad. Hope he's kept himself alive.”
“Me too.”
Silas stared at him, a sour, suspicious expression on his face, like he could see right through Micah’s lies.
“Where is everyone else?” Micah asked, shifting uncomfortably.
Jericho shrugged off his backpack and pulled out a fresh magazine. “Silas and I were in the VR gaming center on Deck Six when we heard the terrorists sweeping the deck above us. These assholes are schizophrenic. Some are taking hostages. Some are shooting anything that moves.”
