by Kyla Stone
He whirled away from her and stalked back down the beach.
“I didn’t mean it! Silas!” The wind took her words and flung them over the water.
But he didn’t turn around.
Something shriveled inside her. Beads of sweat formed at her hairline, heat beating down on her head and shoulders. The sun hung suspended in the sky like a burning heart.
She closed her eyes. The bright light burned through her closed lids, through her eyeballs and struck the center of her brain, like a harsh, blazing sun inside her own skull.
Amelia could still see that sun burning behind her eyes when she closed her eyes and thought of her brother.
She took a breath to steady herself, to choke back the tears threatening to bubble up out of nowhere. She couldn't let herself feel it, not now.
She had to find a way back to him, so she could tell him how sorry she was. Silas had to live. She had to live. With Gabriel by her side, she’d make it. She had hope.
Beside her, Gabriel stirred. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his arm and groaned.
“Did you sleep?” she asked softly.
“I was thinking.” He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes, his expression tense, exhausted. By freeing her, by choosing her, he betrayed his own people. It looked like it was tearing him apart.
“What happens next?”
“I’m working on a plan. But we have time. We’re safe here. You’re safe.”
She did feel safe with him. Even in the midst of all this chaos, she felt safe. She rubbed her swollen fingers.
He glanced at her hands and made a noise deep in his throat.
“They’ll heal,” she said.
“Here.” His voice was hoarse, guilt-stricken. “Please, let me.”
Gabriel took both of her hands in his and gently ran the pads of his thumbs over the lines of her palms. He stroked her fingers. Her skin tingled, sparking at his touch.
“Are you sure they’re okay? It won’t affect your playing?”
She watched his strong fingers massaging her own, the dirt beneath his nails. “I can feel everything and move everything. I’m okay.”
“Good.”
“You know, I don’t know your favorite color.”
“I guess we skipped over some of those pleasantries, didn’t we?” He glanced up, meeting her gaze. “It’s blue.”
Warmth filled her. “Mine, too. See, we agree on something.”
He smiled at her, that dimple forming in his left cheek.
They sat there for a long time, Gabriel tenderly rubbing her fingers back to life. When he looked at her, his eyes were haunted. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She heard everything he couldn’t say. “I know.”
34
Willow
Voices and footsteps came from further down the corridor, just around the corner. Willow crouched and lunged for the closest hiding spot—a dessert bar with shattered display cases of cakes, pastries, and pies.
She scooted around the counter and searched frantically for some kind of weapon. She picked up a large glass shard and wrapped a handful of her dress around the lower half, making a pathetic handle.
The voices grew louder. A guttural male voice laughed.
She jerked open a cabinet door, wincing as the hinges squeaked. It was full of junk. The second one was the same. The third cabinet beneath the sink held only an industrial gallon of soap, a bottle of all-purpose cleaner, and a package of sponges. She just might be short enough.
She shoved aside the supplies with trembling fingers and scooted inside the cabinet. She ducked her head beneath the pipes and the bowl of the sink and squeezed in.
The door wouldn't close all the way.
Damn her father’s big-boned genes. Her muscles ached in protest as she contorted herself into the smallest shape possible. Inside the cabinet, the air smelled dank and stale. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Two inches of open space still gaped between the cabinet edge and the door.
Heavy footsteps stomped around the side of the dessert bar, heading straight toward her.
Sweat trickled down her neck. Her hand tightened on the shard of glass, pain biting into the flesh between her thumb and forefinger.
A shadow fell across the narrow sliver of opened door. She glimpsed dark cargo pants, a walkie talkie clipped to a belt, and the hard muzzle of a pulse gun.
The sink over her head turned on. Water rushed through the pipe pressed against her cheek. She did not move. She did not breathe.
“Did you hear something?” the guttural male voice asked.
The moment stretched, every second excruciating. He knows. He knew she was there, huddled in the cabinet. He was aiming his rifle now, a second from ripping open the door—
Every muscle in her body tensed. She couldn’t die here. Not like this, cowering like an animal. She hadn’t found her family. She hadn’t rescued her brother. She hadn’t made up for her sins.
She steadied her trembling hands, blinking sweat out of her eyes. Her lungs burned for air. Please just go the hell away.
“Nah, must be the creaking from these damn chandeliers,” the second guy said. “Let’s go.”
Their heavy boots crunched through glass as they left the bar and made their way down the empty corridor. The silence returned, thick and heavy.
She closed her eyes as she gulped in mouthfuls of stale air, so relieved she could have wept. She waited, counting to one hundred twice in her head before she allowed herself to move.
She pushed open the cabinet door and crept out from her hiding spot. She stared at the shattered cake display for a long time, willing her hands to stop trembling. She dropped the glass shard clutched in her fist and wiped her stinging hand on her dress, leaving streaks of scarlet.
She pressed a hand towel against the cuts on her palm to staunch the flow, the way her mom had taught her. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and scratchy as sandpaper.
She tried not to imagine what might be happening to her mom right now. If she was still alive.
Willow opened the mini fridge beneath the counter. It was half-full of soda, orange juice, and water bottles. She grabbed a bottle and guzzled the whole thing down, water dripping off her chin. She swiped her fingers in the mess of frosting and cake, careful to avoid the fragments of glass.
It had been hours since she’d had anything to eat or drink. She had no idea of the time. This nightmare went on forever and ever. There was no way to wake up.
She needed a better weapon. The next time she was trapped, she needed to at least try to fight back. She glanced around.
Where there was cake, there must be a cake knife. Somewhere. She slid open several drawers. Gloves, straws, strainers, napkins, forks and spoons. Nestled next to a packet of hair nets were two of the most beautiful knives she'd ever seen.
She grabbed the largest one, took a deep breath, and headed back out.
She considered the crew corridors, but they were narrow with long stretches of absolutely nowhere to run or hide. The passenger areas were marginally safer. But not by much.
She forced herself to keep moving. She had a mission. Rescue her brother. Find her family. Stay alive. She couldn’t fail now. She stepped out into the corridor, heading toward the stairwell leading to Deck Fourteen and the Kid Zone.
Somehow, being alone made everything a thousand times worse. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Her ragged breathing roared in her ears. Adrenaline flushed through her, icing her veins.
Her bare feet on the marble floor echoed like slaps in the awful silence. Every step she took could be her last.
Blood smeared the floor, mingling with shattered glass. Bodies lay everywhere.
She looked at each of the fallen, trying to memorize their faces and their hair and clothes in case she was asked who she'd seen.
If she ever made it off this ship alive.
If anybody did.
35
Micah
Micah followed the group a
s Jericho edged toward a hallway on the right between the Champagne Bar and the OnAir Comedy Club. Jericho peered around the corner, then looked back at them, holding up one hand. They stopped.
Jericho motioned for Silas and Micah to stay back. Silas swung his rifle up, ready to shoot at anything that moved. Micah did the same. His heart jerked, bucking against his ribs.
Patel and Jericho slipped around the corner, silent as ghosts.
He went rigid, not daring to breathe. The hairs prickled on his neck, his arms. Even sullen, unflappable Silas looked anxious.
A minute passed, each second ticking in his brain. Patel appeared and gestured for them to follow him into the hallway, a space twenty feet by twenty feet. Bathrooms on one side, elevators on the other. The closed doors to the deck directly in front of them, the storm lashing the glass.
Two bodies lay crumpled on the floor. One with a knife blade sticking out of his back. The other lay in a rapidly growing pool of blood. Jericho knelt over him and retrieved a thin wire dripping red. His arms were slick with it.
“You used a garrote,” Silas said, awe in his voice.
“Where silence is necessary, it is an excellent weapon.” Jericho wiped off the wire and stuffed it in his backpack. “Albeit messy.”
“Teach me that,” Silas said.
Jericho gave a sharp shake of his head. “You know how to shoot a gun. That's enough.”
Acid rose in Micah’s throat. He retched, narrowly avoiding spraying chunks all over his own gun.
Violence was everywhere. Jericho cleaned fresh, hot blood off his arms like it was nothing, like that blood hadn’t been inside a living man not sixty seconds ago. Both Jericho and Silas spoke of the murder like they’d discuss which steak to order for dinner.
These were the good guys, he told himself over and over. He knew that. Then why did this feel so wrong?
Micah looked down at the bodies again, bile churning in his gut. It could have been Gabriel lying there, killed without mercy or a second of remorse.
He said a quick prayer over their bodies. His mom would want him to. Even the wicked deserved someone to mark their passing.
Patel retrieved both terrorists' walkie-talkies and clipped them to his belt. “We may only have a few minutes before they're supposed to check in. And who knows if we triggered any cameras.”
Jericho went to the glass doors. “They're guarding the lifeboats from the inside because of the storm. We got lucky with these guys. They were both half-drunk. Also, the view is limited from inside. I can only see the next lifeboat from here. Normally I'd want to take out the next few sets of guards, but we don't have time.”
“Because of the bridge,” Silas said.
Jericho nodded. “They'll track us the second we open these doors and go for the lifeboats. I didn't notice any cameras in this alcove, but you never know. Hostiles could be on the starboard wing, waiting for us. Up there, they've got the high ground.”
“Great.” Micah moved toward the doors. “Let's go.”
Silas followed him.
“Hold up, Silas,” Jericho said. “My job is to keep you alive.”
Silas's face contorted. “You're the one who taught me to shoot. You know I can handle myself.”
“I can't let you go out there.”
“So you're making me stay behind like a yellow-bellied pansy?” Silas sneered. “You've got to be joking. I can do anything this asshat can.”
Jericho gripped his shoulder. “I've no doubt. But I need you to provide cover. You're a good shot.”
“That's a load of bull—”
“I'm expendable.” Micah struggled to keep his voice even. “That's why I need to go.” For half a second, shame flushed through him, then a flash of Gabriel’s anger.
Micah wasn’t rich. He wasn’t powerful or important in any way.
He was just a poor, overworked Puerto Rican waiter on a cruise ship. About as expendable as one could get, if you valued life based on wealth and prestige. If the money in your bank account made you somehow worthier.
Silas's gaze flashed to Jericho. Jericho nodded grimly.
Micah handed his weapon to Patel. Already, he felt naked without it. Exposed. He'd be more exposed out on the deck.
But if they didn't send out a distress signal, no one would know their location. No one would rescue them.
Expendable or not, he had to do this. Expendable or not, he could still be brave. He—not these people—decided who he was.
If he had to die here, he could at least make sure it meant something. “Cowards die many times before their deaths,” he whispered. “The valiant never taste death but once.”
“What?” Silas squinted at him.
“Shakespeare.” Jericho tapped the side of his head. “Reading sharpens the mind. You ready?”
Micah nodded. He said a quick prayer in his mind, opened the doors, and stepped through.
The wind buffeted him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Rain pummeled his head and face, blurring his glasses and drenching him instantly. Above him, the storm roared. Several lightning bolts shattered the sky simultaneously.
He'd witnessed dozens of intense, destructive storms like this, but always safely inside a building. Never outside, unprotected, suspended above a pitching, boiling sea.
The ferocity of it was astonishing; it thrummed inside his chest, vibrating in his bones, his teeth. For a second, he froze in fear and awe.
Jericho pushed him from behind. “Stay on your toes. Now go!”
Micah slid across the deck and hit the glass railing stomach-first. It was like a punch to the gut. The orange-bottomed, plexiglass lifeboat swayed next to him, strapped to its cradle. He stared at it.
The canvas cover flapped in the wind, slit down the middle, the hatch slid open. Every boat was the same, all the way down the line.
Jericho grabbed his arm. “We're too late!”
No, no, no! The terrorists had gotten to the emergency beacons and ripped them out or destroyed them. All of them.
Thunder exploded overhead. Something whizzed by him. A crack distinctively not thunder. The wind so loud, he couldn't hear much of anything or pinpoint where the sound had come from.
Further along the deck? From behind them? Or from up on the bridge wing? He could hardly see anything through the fog of his glasses.
Jericho yanked him back. Micah stumbled on the slick deck. Lightning flashed bright as daylight. The wind thrashed at him, threatening to pull him right over the edge.
He hunched his shoulders, ducking his head against the wrath of the storm, and slammed through the glass doors.
“They'll come for us now.” Jericho wiped the rain from his face with the back of his arm.
Micah stood there, cold water slaking off him, his clothes soaked and clinging to his body. He shivered uncontrollably, despair flooding through him. “We're all alone out here. No one’s coming—”
Jericho got right in his face. “Get it together, boy. Are you going to stand there and blubber like a baby, or are you gonna do something?”
Jericho was right. Micah couldn’t panic, not now. “Do something,” he forced out between chattering teeth.
Jericho nodded. “All right, then. Let's get the hell out of here.”
36
Gabriel
Gabriel's walkie-talkie burst with static. “Do you read me?”
“I'm here.”
“It's time,” Simeon said. “It is as I feared. Black is resistant to all persuasion. He is unaffected by the wife. Bring the girl to the bridge.”
Gabriel's tongue thickened in his mouth. He couldn't speak.
“Gabriel.” Simeon’s voice darkened. “Are you having second thoughts?”
His silence said everything.
“We spoke of this. The girl is manipulating you.”
Gabriel glanced across the room. Amelia sat on the floor, leaning against the ladder. Her eyes were closed. Her hands clasped together in her lap. She looked exhausted.
His hea
rt swelled with compassion. “I don't think so.”
“Think, Gabriel! Her father and his people are the kings of manipulation, propaganda, and twisting the truth to their own aims. He's raising her to be a replica of himself. She lies as often as she breathes.”
Amelia had lied and manipulated. But so had Gabriel. She did it to survive. She had a chance to kill him, and she’d trusted him instead. Her words echoed in his mind. “You’re planning to torture her in front of her father.”
Simeon didn’t speak for a long moment. Staticky thunder rumbled in the background. “I have kept certain things from you to try to spare your conscience. You're sensitive. I understand that. But everything has changed. Everything.”
“You told me we would only kill our specific targets. Only the guilty.”
Simeon sighed. “Listen to me. Cheng and his men have gone off-script. Cheng is . . . difficult to contain. All the more reason to take what we need from Black and get to our extraction point. Do you understand?”
“How many innocent people have died?”
“Cheng is the one killing people. I had nothing to do with this, I swear to you. But Gabriel, none of them are innocent. Not one.”
Acid burned the back of his throat. He wanted to tell Simeon to go to hell, but the words wouldn’t come. Simeon was his mentor, his friend. Gabriel still feared disappointing him. “This—this isn't what I signed up for.”
“You aren't listening. Everything has changed. This epidemic is the worst we've ever seen. What's happening out there—what the virus does to people—”
The ship surged beneath Gabriel's feet. He stumbled, then righted himself, gripping the back of a stadium seat for balance. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Black has the vaccine. The true vaccine. Whatever issues your conscience is having, put them to rest. Right now.”
Dizziness washed over him. Everything tilted, suddenly unstable. The foundation of his life shifted, breaking apart beneath his feet. “What's going on?”
