by Kyla Stone
“How many are there?” Micah asked.
“As far as I can tell, there are fifty or sixty hostiles. They’ve got hostages in the Galaxy Lounge and the Trident Theater. Small groups are still sweeping the ship, but the concentration of hostiles are in those two places.”
“Declan Black is being held hostage on the bridge,” Micah said.
Jericho nodded. “I suspected as much.”
Micah caught a glimpse of a handgun, a couple of sheathed knives, and something metallic and disc-shaped before Jericho rezipped the pack. This guy knew what he was doing. Micah wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or frightened.
Jericho slotted the magazine into his rifle and slapped the stock. “Look alive, people. Stay on your toes and follow me.”
25
Amelia
For what seemed like hours, Amelia did not speak. She stared at the black wall of water and the floating projections of sea animals reflected off the glass. Glowing phosphorescent bacteria swirled around her like stars.
What was going on above her? How many innocent people might be dying right this second? What was happening to her father, her mother, her brother? Helplessness and fear tangled in her stomach.
She licked her lips. “I'm thirsty. May I have a drink, please?”
Gabriel retrieved a water bottle from one of the opened boxes leaning against the far wall. He squatted down and tilted the bottle to her mouth.
She gulped it down, shame flooding her belly. She hated accepting this kindness from him, hated needing anything from him at all.
“Thank you.” She said it automatically, instantly despising herself. If there was any time to discard social niceties, surely this was it.
Water dripped down her chin. Gabriel untucked the front of his uniform shirt and wiped her face. This time, she didn't say a word.
His walkie-talkie spat a garbled message. He strode back up the center aisle, out of earshot.
Her neck hurt. Her arms ached from being tied so awkwardly behind her back. She did this to herself. She allowed this to happen. With her arrogance, her stupidity.
No wonder her mother never let her out of sight. No wonder her father only used her for one thing—parading her around like a prize to charm and woo his business partners.
She'd wanted to take control of her life. She made her own decisions for a single pathetic night, and look where it'd gotten her. She was the idiot who fell for a freaking terrorist.
And now here she was. Helpless. Just another pawn on someone else's board. Everything she loathed about how her father treated her, and here she was on the other side, playing a lethal version of the same game.
She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her ring finger stung. She'd sliced it when she freed Micah. The cut wasn't too deep, no permanent damage that would affect her music. If she ever got to pick up a violin again.
Tears pricked her eyes. She forced them back, focusing on Micah instead. Where was he now? Had he been captured? Killed? Or had he done what he said he would, and found a way to alert the outside world? Was someone coming to rescue them?
There is good in him, Micah said. Find it.
Even if the Navy or the Marines came, they'd be too late. Gabriel would take her to the bridge. Whoever was in charge would torture and possibly kill her to get what they needed from her father.
Would they waterboard or shock her? Pull off her fingernails? Chop off her fingers, one by one? Worse?
The panic reared up again and her heart hammered so hard it almost burst through her ribcage. She took shallow breaths, willing herself to calm down.
She was trapped, tied up, with no weapons. She had nothing. Nothing except herself. Use what you have. Her mother taught her that.
A memory surfaced, sharp and sudden. It was two years ago, before one of her father’s Unity Coalition fundraising galas. Amelia had sat in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom as her mother wove a trio of fishtail braids down her back.
She remembered her mother's eyes smudged with shadows, her skin tinged sallow. “Are you all right, Mom?”
“I'm fine, honey,” her mother had said mildly. “Now, let's go over everything again.”
Amelia tried not to roll her eyes. “Tyler Horne. Founder of the nanotech microchip thingy.”
“He's young, powerful, and arrogant. He has a weakness for thrills. He's a gambler. Racked up massive debts to the syndicates. He'll want to flirt, but dangerously. Which means—”
“Never be alone with him.”
Elise nodded as she wound her fingers expertly through Amelia's hair.
“How do you know all this?”
Her mother shook her head, averting her gaze. “No one is ever what they seem. Everyone has layers, fears and weaknesses and personal demons. Some you learn to avoid, to protect yourself. Others you can use to manipulate to your own purpose.”
“Like Father does.”
“Sometimes. Learn to pay attention, and you'll be fine.”
Amelia stared at herself in the mirror. She'd rather stay home and watch horror movies with Silas or practice Bach's Largo from Sonata no. 3, which she'd been working on for an upcoming competition. “Why does he always make me do this?”
“Your father knows what he's doing. Everyone loves attention, especially from a pretty young girl. It just—it smooths things.”
“Sometimes it makes me feel . . . gross.”
The light dimmed in her mother's eyes. “We all must use the gifts we've been given. Your beauty is a great gift. The world is a much harsher place without it. Trust me. You must use what you have.”
“It takes time away from practicing.” Her father wanted her to play, so she played every extra moment she had. He wanted her to be the best. So she wanted to be the best.
Her mother smiled at her in the mirror. “Oh, my darling. So driven, so focused.”
“But I still don't see why—”
“This is what your father wants. So this is what we do.”
Everything she did was to please her father. Everything. But still. “What about what we want?”
Her mother knitted her brow. “We owe an enormous debt to your father. He saved us both. Everything we have comes from him. Remember that.”
She studied her mother in the mirror. Her mouth pinched, her gaze strained. She never talked about the time before. Only that she'd been nothing, had nothing, and Declan Black saved her.
He wasn’t Amelia’s biological father, but he might as well have been. To her mother, he was. She never spoke of the 'genetic donor' who contributed half of Amelia's DNA.
Declan had taken her in when Amelia was a baby. And he was the one who'd engineered the medication that saved her. The meds that kept her alive, kept her brain from turning to mush.
He brought both her mother and Amelia into this life of luxury and glamour. He gave them everything they had, including Amelia's life. For these things, her mother worshiped him. And she expected nothing less of her daughter.
“Much of the country is a cruel, dangerous place. Count your lucky stars every day that you are safe. It's all that matters.” She gave Amelia a weary smile. “You're all that matters.”
Amelia hadn't asked more questions then. It was no use prying further. Her mother never gave any other answer. She kept her past—and her secrets—hidden somewhere deep inside herself.
Her mother taught her how to read people. But so did her father. She had to read him, to know his moods, to anticipate his wrath. She’d been doing a version of it her whole life.
Use what you have.
She stared at the glass walls, remembering something else her mother had said once. Glass is beautiful but weak. But it can be strengthened by heat—made strong by fire.
She needed to be strong now. She just had to think. Be smart.
Use what you have. She could do that. But she couldn't act like she normally did. Flattery and charm wouldn't work on Gabriel, not like it did on fifty-something politicians, public off
icials, and CEOs blinded by their own bloated egos.
Find the good in him. Maybe his feelings for her hadn't all been an act. Or she was thinking of her own emotions, her own reckless attraction. She bit her lip.
Gabriel advanced up the aisle, the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, the gun in one hand and two snack-sized bags of chips in the other. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Thank you,” she said as sincerely as she could.
In the distance, more gunfire, followed by a rumble of thunder. The ship rolled sharply. She slipped sideways. Gabriel grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. “Sorry.”
“It's okay.” She swallowed. Use what you have. Now or never. She might fail—most certainly would fail—but at least it was something. At least she tried.
She’d spent her whole life too scared to try. She wasn’t going to die the same way.
26
Willow
Willow was thirsty, her throat parched, her skin hot and sticky. The smell of sweat and blood permeated the air. Bodies crowded the Galaxy Lounge, both living and dead.
López wasn't talking anymore. His gaze locked on some speck on the opposite wall. He rocked against the seat behind him. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Beside her, Ji-Yun wept quietly. Mi-Na lay draped across her lap. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing ragged.
Blood splattered across their faces, their clothes. It stained Willow, too, tiny droplets like a veil of freckles across her arms. She scrubbed them fiercely with the fabric of her dress.
She couldn’t rub off the faint smears of red on her skin. Just like she couldn't erase the screams in her head or the stench of death filling her nostrils.
She tried not to look at the broken body slumped in the orange chair beside her.
Her throat was raw, her tongue thick and swollen. She imagined water droplets shimmering like some precious crystal. She thought about all the blue water filling the pools, flowing in the fountain in the atrium.
Two terrorists clomped down the aisle past her, their black guns so shiny, so close. She imagined grabbing one out of their hands. She'd never killed anyone before, but it must not be that hard, if you were angry enough, scared enough. And right now, she was plenty of both.
She sensed movement toward the front of the Galaxy Lounge. Several voices shouted simultaneously. Bursts of gunfire exploded through the room. She rose to her knees to peer over the seat in front of her.
The purple stage curtains jerked open. A dozen men poured through the gap. They launched themselves at the guards manning the front of the stage.
Several wore security officer's uniforms and aimed handguns. A few others gripped fire axes, the kind affixed to the wall behind protective glass.
The first terrorist dropped to the carpet. The second lifted his gun, but a passenger with an axe reached him first, wedging the blade deep into his chest.
The rest of the terrorists guarding the sides and back of the Galaxy Lounge ran for the stage, rifles blasting. The passengers and officers on the stage dove for cover, but not before sending their own volley of bullets shrieking over the heads of the hostages.
People screamed and threw themselves to the floor.
A terrorist ran down the center aisle next to her. He stumbled and fell. A puddle of red soaked into the carpet beneath his chest.
She stared at his body, unable to move, to breathe. She was close enough to see his eyes, wide and glassy, staring at nothing. His mouth hung open, a gurgling sound coming from somewhere inside him.
“Get his gun!” someone yelled.
Fear gripped her belly. She couldn't move. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to stay where she was, sheltered by the rows of seats in front of her. Just stay put. Do what you're told. Stay alive.
She couldn't. Zia. That single word, zapping through her.
It was her fault Zia was alone. It was her responsibility to find her sister. Her mom's voice spoke inside her head: Take care of them.
If she didn't, how could she face her mom? How could she ever face herself?
She had to do this. She had to be brave. She had to be brave right freaking now.
She scrambled to her hands and knees. A rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire came from her left as she half-crouched, half-ran across the aisle.
She stepped over the terrorist's body as a middle-aged man and a young woman crept forward and grabbed the rifle. A few others leapt from their seats and ran for the back exit.
She dove between a row and scrambled over feet and legs until she reached the furthest aisle along the far-right wall of the lounge. The terrorists guarding this side had gone, part of the fray in the front center of the room.
She tried not to think about what was happening—who was winning or losing the battle raging on the Galaxy's stage.
She moved down the rows, searching the stricken faces for her sister.
“Zia!” she called as loudly as she dared. It was a miracle anyone heard anything over the din of bullets and shouting. “I'm looking for a Filipino girl, short hair dyed turquoise,” she said a dozen times to anyone within reach.
“Wait.” A silver-haired Indian woman in a sherbet-orange pantsuit waved at her. She hunched between a glass coffee table and the back of the curved sofa in front of her. “Turquoise hair?”
Willow’s heart stopped. “She's my sister.”
The woman's expression was haggard, her eyes bloodshot. Her right earlobe was torn and crusted with dried blood, as if her earring had been ripped out. “She was right in the front, on this side. But honey, you need to know—”
She didn't hear the rest. She moved, scrabbling down the aisle, headed for the first row. Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe.
Zia. She had to find Zia.
No one guarded the front right exit. She could escape. Flee this ornate coffin and find some hole to hide in until this was all over. Other passengers had the same idea. They slipped out one or two at a time.
Only a few moments more and they would be brave enough to flee en masse. The stampede would draw the attention of the terrorists.
She reached the front row and crept forward. Zero obstructions stood between her and the battle at the front of the stage. The bodies of terrorists, passengers, and officers littered the floor. Bullet holes riddled the stage curtain.
A few engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Shouting echoed from the balcony above her. Good guys? Or more terrorists coming for reinforcements?
A bullet punched into the stage only a few yards away. She ducked, flattening herself against the carpet. She turned her head, her cheek pressed against the nubby fibers.
And saw her sister. A cold dread filled Willow worse than all the fear and terror that had come before.
Zia sprawled beneath a coffee table, shards of glass scattered across her prone body. She didn't move. Her head was tilted at an awkward angle, blood speckling her mouth and the turquoise spikes of her hair.
Her eyes were open. But they didn't see Willow.
They didn't see anything anymore.
27
Amelia
Gabriel sat cross-legged in front of Amelia. He fed her several chips in silence. They tasted like salty cardboard in her mouth, but she ate them anyway.
His face was closed, his jaw set. She couldn’t read him. But he didn’t have to feed her. He didn’t have to give her water. That kindness had to mean something. Use what you have.
“May I ask you a question?”
He stared out the viewing window and rubbed the back of his neck. He clenched his jaw, his forehead furrowed.
“Was this—us—all just a ploy?”
“Of course.” The muscle in his cheek jumped.
“Even out by the hot tub? Even in here?”
His gaze didn't stray from the window. “That's what I just said.”
“Okay.” Pain jabbed between her ribs. “But why? Why are you doing this?”
“You should stop talking.” His voice hardened.
“You don't think I deserve to know?”
For a long minute, he didn't speak. Maybe she'd misjudged him. Or misjudged her play, making a mistake before she'd started.
“I'm sorry I had to deceive you. I wouldn't have—I wish things were different.”
She kept her face blank, hiding the relief rushing through her. “I want to understand. I thought—I thought you were a good person.”
Something flickered across his face. “I am.”
“You've got a gun and a hostage. That doesn't exactly make sense.”
“Sometimes we have to do things we'd rather not. Justice requires sacrifice.”
“What justice are you fighting for?”
His eyes flashed. “Justice in everything. Justice for all. For the people.”
“For what people?”
“For everyone, except for you in your glass towers or ivory palaces or whatever.” He spat the words. “All you elites with your private jets and cancer cures and age regeneration procedures—what do you think pays for that? It's ours—bought with our blood, sweat, and tears.”
“That's not true—”
“Do you have any idea what it's like for the average person out there? Inflation spiking so high we can't afford fresh vegetables anymore—if they’re even for sale. They feed us lab-made prefab slop while your people take whatever’s left of the real food not destroyed by that fungal rot epidemic.
“And jobs? No one can afford college anymore. You need a paper degree just to get a crappy manager's position overseeing metalheads at McDonalds. Jobs are a joke.”
Her fingers twitched, itching for her charm bracelet. Was it truly that bad? The newsfeed headlines popping up on her SmartFlex always screamed death and disaster.
Critical water shortages. Epic storms. Droughts and famines. Riots in Chicago and Atlanta. Terrorist attacks. But no one she knew really talked about it except as a problem to clean up, a scourge to get rid of. “You sound angry.”
