by Kyla Stone
“You killed all those people . . .” she moaned.
A tic jumped in his cheek. “People die all the time. They were sick and starving and weak. Half of them had already contracted the bat-flu. They would have died anyway. We did it so America could survive.”
“So the rich could survive, you mean,” Hollis said.
“So the deserving could survive!”
“I don’t understand,” Amelia said. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because the Coalition is going to label it a terrorist attack,” Hollis said. “They didn’t have enough votes to pass their stupid bill. These elite scumbags want to chip and track the rest of us like animals. Just one more way to increase their control. But the people resisted. So, they’re going to scare them into voting anything they want in exchange for the illusion of safety.”
“It’s not an illusion!” her father roared. “Under the Coalition’s authority, our country will be transformed. All citizens safe and protected. A new era—”
“Enough!” Cheng spun toward Declan. “The cure. Now.”
Thunder crashed, booming through the bridge so loud and close the floor seemed to tremble. Lightning forked the sky, lighting up Declan's hard, defiant face. His mouth twisted. “You want your so-called cure? Get me and my family off this ship.”
“We’ve discussed this,” Simeon said. “You provide access to the cure first.”
“You think I have it with me? It's stored in an undisclosed, secured facility.”
“I'm surprised you left without it.”
A shadow passed across Declan’s face, so fleeting she couldn't read it. “It was unforeseen. An anomaly.”
Amelia spat out the blood pooling in her mouth. Her head throbbed. Her stomach pulsed in agony. There was something else, something she’d missed. Things seemed fuzzy and far away. Everything happened through a red veil of pain.
Simeon swiped something into his satphone with one hand. “Provide me the security codes to the location and identifying characteristics. My contacts will take possession of the cure and ensure its validity. Then we'll discuss getting you off this ship.”
“Do you think I'm stupid? I will give you nothing before you provide safe passage for myself and my family.”
Simeon swore. “Unacceptable. Give us what we need immediately, or we kill your daughter.”
Declan lifted his chin. “I refuse to allow anyone to threaten me into submission. You will not receive the cure in exchange for her life or anyone else’s. I will not barter with terrorists.”
Simeon kicked her again. “Then we don't need her. Too bad. She’s a pretty thing.”
“Simeon, no!” Gabriel said.
She tried to sit up, pain throbbing through her ribs. “Father!”
“Such a waste.” Simeon pressed the gun to her temple.
Something flickered beneath her father’s composed features, an expression she had never seen before. His eyes widened, the whites showing around the irises. And there—a glimmer of anguish.
Hope beat in her heart. He did love her. After all of this, in spite of everything, he loved her. He would do something, somehow, to stop this. To save her.
“Father! Please!” she pleaded.
His face contorted. Remorse flared in his eyes.
“Help me!”
Just as swiftly, it winked out. His gaze dropped to his lap.
“Dad!”
He wouldn't look at her.
In the dim lighting, she barely recognized him. Maybe tears glistening in his eyes. Or maybe they didn’t. She couldn't tell.
Either way, he'd abandoned her. Either way, she was dead.
He wasn't going to save her.
He didn't want her. The single thought beat through the haze of terror and pain. He didn't want her. He was her father in everything but DNA. He had raised her. But he hadn't loved her. He couldn't have, after this. Dismissing her suffering—her impending death—without a mote of actual feeling.
After all she had sacrificed for him, spending her life trying to please him, trying to earn his respect, his love. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
She didn't matter. Not to her father. Not to Gabriel. Not to anyone.
Kane’s gaze slithered over her. “Give me the girl.”
Fear plunged a dagger into her belly.
“No,” Simeon said. “That's not how we do things.”
“You owe me!” Kane snarled.
Cheng spoke into his satphone. “Enough!” His scar pulsed purple. He barely raised his voice, but all the attention in the room turned to him. “We’re out of time.”
Simeon shot him a look, his brows knitted, his jaw set. “What are you talking about?”
“The Voyager is wired with explosives. They’re set to go off in just under twenty minutes.”
Simeon's face blanched. He stared at Cheng with his mouth half-open. “What?”
“The ship sinks.”
Simeon’s eyes clouded with fury—and wariness. “You can't do that. What about—?”
Cheng's rifle came to rest not quite pointed at Simeon, but very close. “We have our own orders. I'm sure you understand.”
“What orders?” Simeon asked. “From who?”
Tension sizzled in the air. Every terrorist stiffened, fingers hovering over the triggers of their weapons. Cheng splayed his legs, his chest out, his nostrils flaring.
The power had shifted, subtly but irrevocably. Simeon and the New Patriots were no longer in charge.
Amelia didn’t know what it meant, but she knew it was bad. Things were about to get worse. Much worse.
“Who gave those orders?” Simeon demanded.
The barrel of Cheng’s rifle swung up. “We share the same client, I believe.”
“And our extraction?” Simeon's voice went hoarse.
Cheng shrugged dismissively. “It will be taken care of. As promised.”
“I want the girl,” Kane said again.
Cheng nodded, not taking his eyes off Simeon. “Be my guest.”
Her breath stilled in her throat. Her bones turned to water.
Gabriel charged forward and grabbed Simeon's arm, his face etched with anguish and outrage. “You swore to me! You can't do this!”
Simeon pivoted, pointing his weapon at Gabriel's chest. “Do not interfere. We all must make sacrifices.”
“She's a human being, not a sacrifice!”
Simeon's expression was strained, his voice hoarse. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice, son.”
Kane grabbed her by the hair and jerked her to her feet. The floor rolled beneath her. She stumbled as he half-shoved, half-dragged her to the bridge door. She managed to hold on to her clutch, grasping it like a lifeline, like it could somehow save her from what would come.
“No!” Her mother cried. “Please! Don't hurt her! Declan, do something!”
Her mother’s voice was the last thing Amelia heard before the bridge door slammed behind her.
41
Micah
Micah stood with Silas, Jericho, and several security personnel in the CSO’s office. The walls were a bland white, the desk and shelves industrial steel.
When they’d entered the office a few minutes earlier, they’d found the group Patel had told them about—five men cowering in a small storage closet in the back—including Chief Security Officer Franz Schneider.
“What do you need?” the CSO asked. Schneider, a German national, was a tall man with a proud, arrogant bearing, his graying red hair shorn close to his skull, his eyes watery from decades of smoking cigars. Anger flared in Micah's chest every time he looked at him.
“Weapons and men,” Jericho said.
“We do keep a few weapons on board, but not enough.” Schneider pressed his hand against the front of a large safe. The sleek surface glowed around his fingers as it read his biometrics. The door clicked open. The interior of the safe contained a half-dozen pistols and rifles.
“Could've used these a few hours
ago,” Jericho said sourly, grabbing a gun and clipping it to his belt.
Schneider rubbed his neck. “This is established cruise industry protocol and the official recommendation of Voyager Enterprises. Guns are forbidden in most parts of the world. Most of our international crew wouldn’t know how to use one. To avoid undue stress on passengers, ship's officers do not carry weapons.”
“Undue stress?” Jericho’s eyes bulged. “They're worried about stress? How did Voyager Enterprises plan to protect their investment from hostiles, especially considered the caliber of your guests?”
Schneider shifted uncomfortably. “We have emergency protocols. We have plenty of security. There has never been an attack on a ship such as the Grand Voyager.”
“You made the erroneous assumption that a hostile attack would only come from the outside,” Jericho said.
Schneider blinked. “That is correct. We had no idea we'd been infiltrated by terrorists. No safety protocol can protect against all possibilities—”
“What about the drugs?” Micah was too furious to remain silent any longer. “You're smuggling Silk. You’re a terrorist, too.”
“Is that true?” Jericho narrowed his eyes. His hand drifted to his holster.
Schneider looked about to deny it, but he sighed instead. “Only the drugs. I had no idea about anything else. We weren't smuggling it into the U.S. We were smuggling it out. There is high demand in certain countries for a substance that calms and subdues its users, rather than inciting violence and gang warfare.”
Rage jolted through Micah. He wanted to punch the man in the face. “It subdues the life out of them!”
“We all know what it's like to try and take care of our families.” Schneider's voice rose. “No job pays enough. They offered forty grand a shipment. I have two daughters. I could not turn it down.”
“And the guns?” Micah asked.
Schneider raised his hands. “I had nothing to do with any guns. I swear.”
Micah noticed Silas staring at him out of the corner of his eye, his brows furrowed in scrutiny, like he recognized Micah and was trying to place him. Did Silas know Gabriel was his brother, that he'd turned traitor? Heat crept up Micah's neck, shame filling him. He looked away.
“We don't have time for this,” Jericho said. “We have two objectives. Free the hostages from the muster stations and move as many survivors into lifeboats as possible, and infiltrate the bridge. The hostiles are holding high-value hostages as well as controlling the ship.”
“The ship can be steered from the engine room,” Schneider said.
“The hostiles have the engine room. They gained control through subterfuge. We would not be so lucky. The door is reinforced steel and the windows are plexiglass. We could attempt to break in with sledgehammers or an acetylene torch, but we'd be sitting ducks in the process.”
“What do you recommend?” Schneider asked uneasily. He handed a pistol to each of his men, his eyes darting from the weapons to the men's faces. “A shootout on a ship is a huge risk. This will only escalate the violence.”
“While you've been in here cowering like little girls, the violence has been plenty escalated,” Silas snapped.
Schneider shook his head. “The golden rule of piracy is give them what they want. Don't resist. They drain financial accounts and steal jewels and SmartFlexes and they leave.”
“These aren't just pirates.” Jericho's voice hardened. “They're terrorists. They're out for blood. You're done hiding, do you understand? It's time to fight.”
Schneider’s nostrils flared. He lifted his hands placatingly. “We weren't hiding! We were enacting safety protocols. In the event of any hostile attack, all personnel should retreat to their cabins. We are not trained in combat. We are given explicit instructions never to engage—”
“Enough.” Jericho checked the clip on his semi-automatic rifle. “None of that matters now. We need a plan. To evacuate the passengers, we need a diversion at the muster stations, as well as security to sweep the deck as passengers board the lifeboats. The storm makes things tricky, but it'll be harder for the hostiles as well. We took out two of the scumbags guarding the boats earlier. You may have a clear passage, or you might have to fight through. I need a few of your men to help me take the bridge.”
“You have them, including myself. We aren't afraid to fight. We were simply following—”
“Do you have access to the bridge?” Jericho interrupted.
“As Chief Security Officer, my retinal scan will automatically go through, even if they've tried to change the security code. The problem is the security camera. They'll see us coming and shoot us as soon as the door opens.”
“That's why we need a distraction.” Jericho frowned, cracking his knuckles. “Can you pull up the HVAC system?”
“Yes, I have access. But—”
“How much space in those ducts?”
“Ductwork, wiring, and such take up two feet between decks. The amount of airflow required for the size of the ship ensures most ducts are wide enough for a small, nimble adult—if that's what you're thinking.”
“It will do. Micah, Silas, you'll come with me. Micah, you're the only one here small enough. Are you willing to volunteer?”
Micah didn't hesitate. He would do anything to put a stop to this, to end the killing. “Absolutely.”
“That's what I want to hear.”
Schneider swiped his tablet several times and activated the holo port. The blueprints hovered in the air in front of them. “There are fans here and here.”
He pointed a thick finger. “But if you enter here, through the vent in the Second Officer's quarters, located portside, you will have unobstructed access. However, several turns will be difficult to manage. The sheet metal has sharp edges, and you will likely make considerable noise.”
Micah swallowed. “Sounds a tad more difficult than they make it look in the movies.”
Jericho smiled grimly. “Real life usually is.”
“Hope you're not claustrophobic,” Silas said, sounding an awful lot like he hoped Micah was.
“You won't be able to open the grille over the bridge as the screws will be on the outside,” Schneider warned.
Jericho shook his head. “I have a workaround. He doesn't need to get in the bridge, just close.”
Micah bit the inside of his cheek, forcing down his anxiety. He focused on the blueprints, trying to memorize the twists and turns in the narrow, convoluted ductwork.
“What if they hear him?” Silas asked. “Won't they just shoot at the ceiling and blow him to smithereens?”
Micah tried not to imagine being trapped in a tight, confined space, bullets ripping through the sheet metal all around him. “What he said.”
Jericho frowned. “How close can he get without entering the actual bridge space?”
Schneider drew a line with his finger. “Approximately seven feet of ductwork extends beyond the interior wall before the vent located here.”
“Seven feet. That'll still work.” Jericho smacked Micah on the back so hard he almost pitched forward into the desk. “I guess you'll live through this after all.”
“Great,” Micah wheezed.
“Not much will filter into the vent and it’ll dissipate in less than five minutes, but it will probably still hurt like hell.”
Micah swallowed. “What?”
“You’ll need a mask. Unfortunately, I only have a flimsy paper one.”
“What are you talking about?” Micah wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Jericho pulled something flat, shiny, and disc-shaped out of his backpack. A drone. Smaller than the neighborhood guardian drones, this drone was the size of a large dinner plate.
He pressed a button, and an LED light in the center flashed blue. He pried open the back panel. Micah glimpsed its guts—wires and electrodes and other stuff Gabriel would know, but Micah never had an interest in.
Pain speared him at the thought of his brother. He shoved it aside. He took a c
loser look at the drone. “Wait. Is that thing weaponized?”
Jericho smiled. “Protectionary measures only, I assure you. This has a modified tear gas canister. And it's going to save our asses.”
42
Gabriel
“You let him take her!” Helpless rage boiled through Gabriel. “You know what he's going to do to her!”
Simeon shook his head. His face was strained, dark smudges beneath his eyes. “I didn’t have a choice, Gabriel. I need you to keep it together. Remember the cause.”
“How could you do this?” He stared at Simeon, the man who'd basically raised him, who'd been like a father. Now he was a stranger. The man who'd paid for his school lunches, who taught him how to handle a classic car, one without auto-drive.
His friend, mentor, and protector. Simeon, who had promised they'd all be heroes, who'd sworn only the guilty would die, and even then, as few as possible.
Simeon promised Amelia wouldn’t be hurt. Then he’d tortured her himself, with his own hands. Amelia had warned Gabriel, and he hadn’t believed her. Gabriel had trusted Simeon. Simeon, who had lied about everything.
Simeon refused to answer him. He stalked to the bridge starboard windows and looked out at the storm. He pulled out his satphone and spoke in a voice too quiet for Gabriel to overhear. Cheng and his men huddled together, their heads bent, muttering into their own satphones.
“I'll get you what you want.” Declan Black leaned forward in the captain's chair.
Bitterness coiled in Gabriel’s belly and slithered up his throat. He'd believed in this cause since he was fourteen. But first, he'd believed in a man. A man who wasn't who he said he was. A man who couldn't possibly stand for the ideals he'd preached for the last decade.
Gabriel felt himself crumbling. “You don't know the first thing about what I want.”
