by Kyla Stone
She longed to wrap her arms around her sister and never let go. Leaving her here like this, her body just lying there, like trash—it was a betrayal. A desecration.
“I'm sorry.” Her voice clogged with sorrow and regret and grief. “I'm so sorry.”
Every muscle in her body ached as she pulled herself to her hands and knees. Her palms burned from a dozen tiny cuts. Her knees left a swath of blood across the carpet.
She had to focus on escape now. She had to save Benjie.
She glanced toward the stage. Four men knelt in the carnage. One terrorist guarded either side, two others faced the hostages, screaming at them, thrusting the end of their rifles in the hostages' faces.
Most of the passengers remained seated, too terrified to flee, shocked rigid at the scene unfolding in front of them.
She glanced back toward the right front exit. The doorway was only a half-dozen yards away. The exit sign blinked red above the door, one of the letters shorted out.
A gunshot blasted. The first hostage went down, falling over backward like a sack of flour.
Willow crouched, legs like coiled springs. She ignored the screaming in her brain, the agony of the glass still stuck in her palms and kneecaps, the roar of her pulse so loud it drowned out the rest of the world—
She leapt to her feet and ran.
Five feet. Ten. Tears stung her eyes, everything around her a blur.
She cleared the doorway. No shots fired. No shouts directed her way.
She fled down the hallway, searching frantically for the nearest stairwell. She raced up two flights of stairs before pausing on the landing, gasping.
Muffled screams filtered from the Galaxy Lounge below. Think. She had to think.
What should she do? Where should she hide? She touched her mother's wristband. She could get into any room.
She should get below, into the crew quarters, and find a lowly cabin to hide in until the Navy SEALs or whoever came to save them. The pirates had no reason to go down there. The crew had nothing worth scavenging.
Benjie. The thought shot through her as loud as if someone had shouted in her ear.
She couldn’t hide. Not yet. She had to find the remaining parts of her family. Benjie first. Her mom would want her to go after Benjie. They’re your responsibility.
Once she found them, they'd lie low until rescue arrived, like López said. Someone would come for them. Every passenger on this damn ship was as rich as Midas. The whole U.S. Army would ride in and save them.
She started to head up the stairs on tiptoe, as if that would make a difference.
A sound.
She craned her head, searching above and below, to the left and right. It came again. From below her. Footsteps. Someone coming up the stairs. At least one, possibly more.
She couldn't tell how many flights below they were, and she couldn't risk peering over the railing. But they headed closer. A male voice muttered something and another laughed.
Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She ran out of the stairwell, desperately hoping she wasn't fleeing from the frying pan into the fire. She rounded the corner and pressed herself against a brick façade wall.
A dozen small tables and bar stools bunched beneath a trellis strung with bioluminescent lights in a hundred different colors. She had the impression of wide open space all around and above her. Everything was dim and hard to see.
She blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust as she followed the wall to an alcove with a tall fronded plant. She crouched behind it, squeezing herself between the wall and the huge ceramic planter, adjusting the fronds to hide herself.
It sucked as a hiding spot, but it would have to do. She forced herself to take several deep, steadying breaths as she peeked between the leaves.
The ship's suite balconies rose up on either side of the four-story atrium. A mosaic tile pathway wound past the café into a stand of manicured trees and bushes, all lit from below with flickering lights that gradually changed colors from blue to red to pink to magenta. She’d reached the Coral Gardens.
Far above her, the rain pounded against the transparent ceiling. No overhead lights lit her way; there was only the dim atmospheric lighting to allow for stargazing on clear nights. This was not one of them.
She was on the stern—the backside—of Deck Eight. What else was on Eight? She tapped her wristband twice and the hologram of the ship appeared.
A bunch of cafes, high-end designer shops, and the digital art gallery circled the Coral Gardens—a huge park area with tile pathways, artfully placed waterfalls and streams, and little bridges winding through tropical trees, topiary bushes and plants shaped like a coral reef.
She'd avoided this deck until now because it lacked teen or kid activities. The decks above her held the bars and theaters, the casino, the snow room and low-grav center, and the sundecks, where anyone with a gun would see her a mile off.
Once she reached the mid-stairwell, she could go all the way up to Deck Fourteen.
The voices drew closer. She shrank against the wall. Two terrorists with their huge guns flanked a svelte silver-haired woman in a silk gown and a mink shrug.
They passed by only a half-dozen feet away. Her heart punched into her throat. If the men looked to their left, they would see her through the fronds. Don't breathe.
The woman wept as she stumbled on the cobblestones in her four-inch heels. One of the men grabbed her elbow and yanked her up. The other man carried a half-full pillowcase bulging with jewelry.
“You don't have to do this,” the woman begged. “I can wire you any amount you want. Please, don't hurt us.”
The man with the pillowcase spat something in Tagalog. Willow didn't speak Tagalog at home, but her lola did sometimes. At home, the Filipino Channel was always on in the background.
She recognized a few words. Shut your mouth, pig.
They marched past and disappeared into the shrubbery.
She let the air out of her lungs. The ship rolled and her stomach rolled with it, making her queasy. Thunder crashed overhead.
Time to go. She should head back to the closest stairs. Her legs ached from crouching. She pushed herself to her feet.
And froze. More sounds from the stairwell.
Her hiding spot was too flimsy to keep working. She'd gotten lucky last time. She had to move, and she had to move now.
She edged around the planter and pushed herself off the wall. Using the path was a recipe for disaster, but she could go through the park itself. Most of the foliage would provide good cover.
She pushed through the café tables and chairs, careful not to bump into anything that might make a noise, and crept between a boxwood shaped like a giant brain coral and a laurel shrub formed into a purple fan.
Mulch, twigs and fallen pine needles dug into her bare feet. She inhaled the scent of flowers and holly, craning her ears to listen over the sounds of birdsong piped into the speakers.
She pushed aside two chest-high plants formed into pumpkin-orange pillars. A thorn snagged her dress and she jerked it free. The garden burst with color—yellow sea anemones and blue elkhorn, pink and green dragon-eyed something, and a host of others she couldn’t name.
For a moment, she could almost forget. For half a second, she could—
Pain shot through the center of her heart. She could never forget, would never forget, not for one moment, that her sister was gone, that she’d died a horrible death.
Worse, she had died scared and alone. And it was Willow's fault.
Willow leaned against the trunk of a Japanese maple, red leaves like tiny hands fluttering all around her. A strangled sob escaped her lips. She slapped both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
She couldn't freak out. Not here. She couldn't grieve. Not now. Not if she wanted to survive. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain back, shoving the grief and sorrow and despair into a tiny box in a corner of her soul.
When she opened her eyes, a bolt of lightning lit up the atriu
m. Three dark shapes moved amongst all the motionless ones. Only a few dozen yards ahead of her, they glided along the path like silent shadows.
Thunder crashed. Above the birdsong chirping in the branch next to her, she heard other sounds. Footsteps and voices. Behind her.
She froze, her heart a pellet of ice.
She was trapped.
31
Gabriel
“We haven't known each other that long,” Amelia said haltingly. “But I felt something.”
Gabriel stared at her. The blue glow from the holograms glimmered across her face. She was so breathtakingly beautiful. A tiny chasm opened inside his heart.
“I felt something. You think you can judge me, but you can't. I don't have the time or the—I don't have close relationships. The girls my age are all daughters of politicians or CEOs or celebrities. They want to get close to my father's power. Or they want to be written up in the latest celebrity gossip vlog, pictures of themselves with their arms slung around me plastered all over the internet.”
He curled his lip. “Cry me a river.”
“I know. I know, okay? That's nothing compared to actual suffering. But—what I'm trying to say is, before you, I've never—”
She cleared her throat, a blush spreading from her neck. “We're so different. But I saw something, something in your eyes. I can be myself around you. You aren't impressed by my father's influence and power, my wealth and status.”
He snorted.
“See? That's what everyone else wants. With you, they're barriers. I've never met anyone like that before.”
“You're socializing in the wrong circles.”
“Yeah, I'm starting to get that.”
He almost smiled. “You'd be surprised by how human we can be.”
She met his gaze, steady and unblinking. “I am surprised. I admit it. You surprised me.”
A shard of guilt punctured his lungs. He looked down at the weapon in his hands.
“What I felt was real.” Her voice cracked. He glanced at her. Her face looked crumpled, like she was fighting back tears. “It kills me to say this—to admit it. But I felt it. And I know you did, too.”
The ship pitched. Nausea swirled in his stomach. He hardened his voice. “It was an act. I told you.”
“Is it so hard to admit?” A phantom of a smile crossed her lips, her chin quivering.
She was the daughter of Declan Black, billionaire CEO, corrupt chairman of the Unity Coalition, the man who kept the BioGen cancer cure from every person not born with a silver spoon in their mouth, including Gabriel’s mom. He’d watched his mom die because of her father.
This girl was the enemy.
Then why had his heart just split wide open?
“It's always hard to be vulnerable,” she said. “No matter who we are.”
“Vulnerability is nothing but weakness where I come from.”
“I don't believe that. You love your brother. I saw that clear as day.”
He didn't answer her. Too many tangled emotions snarled in his gut. Too many things he didn't want to feel, wasn't supposed to feel. Couldn’t feel.
The memory of their kiss flushed through him—the soft, open expression on her face, so different from the cool reserve she showed the rest of the world.
She was getting under his skin. And he hated it.
He leapt to his feet. “I'm getting a drink.”
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and stalked up the darkened center aisle to the stack of water bottles against the back wall. His walkie-talkie spat static, and Simeon’s voice came on the line. “Gabriel.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m checking in. The muster stations are quiet. There haven’t been any major attempts to escape. We’re headed to our extraction point. Everything is on target, except for Black. He’s quite . . . difficult. How is the girl?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Be ready to bring her to the bridge.”
Gabriel glanced toward the front of the Oceanarium. Amelia stared back at him. His heartbeat stuttered. “Simeon—”
“What?”
But he couldn’t ask the question. “I’ll be ready.”
He clipped the walkie-talkie and pulled two water bottles out of the box. He returned to the dais, knelt, and offered her a drink.
“Can I ask you a favor?” she asked. “The bindings on my wrists. They're so tight, I can't feel my fingers. Nerve damage could affect my playing. Please.”
Her eyes filled with anxiety and fear. He'd seen her with a violin. He knew how much she loved it, how skilled she was. It wouldn’t hurt anything to free her for a few minutes.
He pulled his knife from its sheath at his waist and a new zip-tie from his pocket. She bent forward, and he slid the knife between her hands and cut the strap.
“May I rub my fingers?”
He nodded.
She brought her hands in front of her and sucked in her breath. Her fingers were purplish and swollen. An ugly red mark encircled each wrist.
His mouth went dry. “I'm sorry.”
“See? You don't have hatred in you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How could you, when you show such kindness?”
“I have both hatred and love in me. That's what we get wrong. We think it's one or the other, but it isn't. And love and hate don’t have much to do with justice, do they?”
“We still have our feelings. What about yours?” Her gaze pinned him. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” he answered honestly. He couldn't help himself. He was supposed to hate her. Everything in him wanted to, needed to—but he couldn’t. He looked into her eyes and saw sadness and fear, but below that, strength. And courage. “I thought I did, at first. But I don't.”
“Then choose something else. Choose love.”
“It's not that easy.” Shame and remorse skewered him. His heart ripped in pieces. Everything inside him sharp and jagged, like broken glass. “This is bigger than me. I can't choose my own selfish desires when people are starving and sick and dying. That’s not justice. I must be willing to sacrifice.”
She rubbed her swollen fingers. “Maybe you're sacrificing the wrong things.”
He couldn't help it. He reached for her hand.
She looked up at him. Their faces were inches apart. He counted every pale eyelash, traced the faintest spray of pimples along her hairline.
He saw everything in the deep wells of her eyes—his own pain and turmoil reflected back at him.
She interlocked her fingers with his. “Gabriel.”
He should pull his hand away. He should tie her up. He should get as far away from this girl as he could.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. She had a warmth to her, a glow that lit her up from the inside.
He wanted to be near her.
Amelia leaned forward. Her breath quickened, so close he felt it on his cheek.
Her lips grazed his. His blood buzzed at her touch, his skin hot and tingling.
His heart thudded against his ribs.
She kissed him.
She kissed him hard and deep. He opened his mouth, letting her kiss him, letting her in.
She buried her fingers in his hair and drew him to her. Dark and fierce emotions burst inside him.
He groaned. Everything rose to the surface at once. All the things he hadn't allowed himself to feel—his doubt, his fear, his overwhelming loneliness.
He kissed her. Heaven help him, he was kissing her back. He dropped the knife and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap.
She stroked his scalp, her hands on either side of his head.
He kissed her, hard and urgent and desperate, filled with a longing he couldn’t name. For this moment, here with her, the darkness within him receded like a great black wave.
He took in her warmth, her nearness, her scent like lilacs in an open field. She felt safe. She felt like coming home.
She pulled away. He opened his eyes and took a ra
gged breath.
She placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. Her gaze bored into him with her intense, ice-blue eyes. “This is real. Do you feel it now?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, his throat raw.
“And I'm real. I'm a real person. I feel fear and pain and love, just like you.”
“I know.” He reached for her again, but she slid off his lap.
“I'm not bad. I've made mistakes, but I'm not evil. Being born into a rich family doesn't make me a bad person. Being poor doesn't make you bad. It’s our actions that count. Our—our choices.”
“Come here.”
She came back to him. He wrapped his arms around her, sinking into her softness, her warmth. His skin was on fire. His bones were melting.
She kissed him again, long and slow.
Something cold and razor-sharp slid across his throat.
Amelia pressed the knife against his Adam's apple.
Stupid! How could he be so stupid! Rage crackled through him. Sparks flew behind his eyes, red against black canvas. He should've known she was just like the rest of them. “How could you—!”
“I talk,” she said. “You listen.”
All this time he’d thought he manipulated her, but she'd used him and manipulated him right back. And now he'd screwed up so badly Simeon would never forgive him.
He’d betrayed the cause. Betrayed his own heart. He’d die a coward, a traitor, his life utterly meaningless.
“Are you listening?”
He clenched his fists, furious at her, furious at himself. But she had him. He was helpless.
“I could kill you right now,” she said. “I'll run out of here and some other terrorist will shoot me or torture me or—it doesn't matter. But whatever happens next, I know what I should do. I'm supposed to kill you.”
A sharp bitterness welled on his tongue. “Just do it.”
She pressed the blade deeper.
32
Willow
Willow was trapped.
Three figures advanced down the path toward her. At least two headed her way from behind. The Japanese maple wouldn't provide enough coverage. She was exposed.
