The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

“You want her.”

  The ship rolled. Lightning lit up the bridge windows.

  “I can get you what you want.”

  Revulsion clogged Gabriel’s throat. “Lies of a broken and desperate man. Even if she made it off the boat alive, she wouldn't want anything to do with you. Not after this.”

  “Yes, she will. She'll have to.”

  He remembered Amelia's words as she slumped in the patio chair, trembling and exhausted, the sky darkening, electrons sizzling, the wind whipping all around them. She'd shared her deepest secret, her weakness.

  And Gabriel had betrayed her.

  Black read his face and smirked. “Amelia developed feelings for you, didn't she? She told you about her little condition.”

  Gabriel despised the sound of her name on that man's lips. It didn't matter that he was her father; he was a monster. “Shut up.”

  “You know I'm right. She needs the medication or she's dead or a vegetable. Every seizure destroys more of that pretty brain of hers. If she makes it off the ship, she'll find me. And you can be there, right by my side.”

  “If I let you go, you'll just kill me.” He masked the desire springing up inside him, the hope that Amelia might live through this, that his betrayal hadn’t killed her.

  “I have a need for those with certain . . . skills. There is a place for you.”

  There was no place left for Gabriel. Not here. Not anymore. Not with a monster like Black. Not with a deceiver like Simeon. Not with Amelia, who Gabriel had betrayed and destroyed. Not with Micah, who was too good to ever forgive him now.

  Gabriel was trapped in a shadowy no man’s land of rage, self-loathing, and hatred.

  He made the decision in an instant. Once it was made, there was no turning back. In one swift motion, he lifted his gun, swiveled, and aimed it at Simeon's head.

  Simeon looked up. Surprised disbelief and outrage sparked in his eyes.

  “Hey!” Hollis shouted. “Stop!”

  Gabriel pulled the trigger, the gunshot echoing in his ears. Simeon fell almost soundlessly. His body lay twitching on the floor, then went still.

  “What the—?” Hollis swung around.

  Across the room, Cheng raised his pulse gun and shot Hollis. The laser pulsed wide, striking her left shoulder. The smell of singed flesh filled the bridge.

  Hollis stumbled, then righted herself, shrieking as she gripped her limp, lifeless arm. Before she could raise her own gun, Cheng shot her three more times.

  Hollis triggered the rifle as she fell, slugs hammering the floor, the wall, and the ceiling only a few feet from where Gabriel stood.

  “Thank you for that.” Cheng grinned, his scar wrinkling his left cheek. “I was about to kill that self-righteous ass myself.”

  Gabriel stiffened. “I didn't do it for you.”

  “You can still redeem yourself,” Black said fervently. “You can make the right choice.”

  “There is no redemption.” The words were bitter as poison in his mouth. He widened his stance and pressed his gun against Declan Black's head.

  “I'm afraid I can't let you do that.” Cheng aimed his pulse gun at Gabriel. So did the three men behind him.

  Black's face paled, but his voice remained steady. “Choose your actions carefully. Kill me and Amelia's treatment goes with it. Is that what you want?”

  “Amelia's dead. You and Simeon made sure of that.”

  “Put the gun down, boy.” Cheng took a step toward him.

  “He deserves to die. I thought that's what we’re here for.” Gabriel’s hands were slick, the gun trembling.

  Cheng shook his head, a slow smile creeping across his face. “That was our original objective. We were hired to support the New Patriots in capturing the ship and eliminating several high-value targets, mainly the leadership of the Unity Coalition. Declan Black was the primary target.

  “But that objective changed. Simeon was weak. His unfortunate distaste for torture and dispatching women limited his effectiveness. His New Patriots are idealistic and disorganized, not cut out for a task such as this. We, however, have no such qualms. And the situation has changed. We are nothing if not flexible.” Cheng turned to Declan. “It's time to dispense with these little games. Mr. Black, we have a chopper waiting. You’re coming with us.”

  Gabriel gaped at him. “What about the rendezvous point? The extraction? The boats?”

  “Our boats aren't coming. They never were.”

  “Wait—what?” Confusion thickened like fog in Gabriel’s mind. He couldn't comprehend the words he'd just heard. They didn't make sense. “No boats are coming?”

  Cheng started to turn away, as if he were bored of the conversation. “Are you an idiot? That's what I said.”

  “What about your own men?”

  Cheng shrugged. “They’re nothing special. I will have a thousand more just like them by tomorrow.”

  The realization dawned slow and ugly. They’d been betrayed, both the New Patriots and the pirates-for-hire left to die on a burning, sinking ship—just like everyone else. His legs went weak. “We were never meant to survive the mission.”

  “Not even Simeon knew,” Cheng said. “Our client saw to that.”

  “Your client?”

  “You think this whole thing was some idealized statement in the name of freedom? Only one thing is at the root of an act like this. Power. Bought and paid for with cold, hard cash.”

  Declan's face darkened. “That lying, double-crossing sack of sh—”

  “Our client took care of loose ends,” Cheng said. “And killed two birds with one stone. I wasn't sure of the endgame before Black's little confession. But it all makes sense now. The New Patriots are patsies, an easy mark to take the blame. The truth about Black and BioGen’s role in the release of the bioweapon virus will remain a mystery—as will the identity of the people who hired him. And you’ll all be dead, so who can say what really happened here? Quite brilliant, actually.”

  He turned to Gabriel. “Now, put your gun down so we can finish this childish nonsense.”

  Gabriel kept the gun pressed against Declan's head, every muscle tensed. He couldn’t lose his balance when the ship rocked, or it would all be over in a moment. He clenched his jaw, fighting down panic. He had to think. Had to be smart. “Soon as I do that, you'll shoot me.”

  Declan started to rise.

  “Don't move!” Gabriel said.

  Cheng advanced around the console, stopping on the other side of the captain's chair, his gun still aimed at Gabriel’s head. Gabriel and Cheng faced each other, Declan between them.

  “Put the gun down,” Cheng said. “It's over.”

  “You first,” Gabriel said to Cheng. “You can kill me, but I'll get Black, and all his secrets die with him—including the cure.”

  “I'm a trained killer, boy. Who do you think will win this shootout?”

  Gabriel dug the barrel against Black's temple. “Are you willing to test that hypothesis?”

  An explosion shook the floor beneath them.

  Cheng smiled. His scar seemed to throb in the dim light, like a living thing. “Looks like the party's starting early.”

  “Hostiles!” One of Cheng's men pointed at the security monitors. Gabriel caught a glimpse of movement on the hallway camera out of the corner of his eye.

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  43

  Micah

  Micah had never been more claustrophobic in his life. The sheet metal walls closed in on him in the darkness. He choked on stale, dirty air. Dust caked his throat and prickled his nostrils.

  The mask pressed against his nose and mouth so tight that it was hard to breathe. He kept choking back a sneeze.

  The corners of the ducts were sharp as razor blades. The old cuts in his palm and fingers mingled with several fresh ones, all of them stinging. He'd sliced his forearm and right thigh as he slithered his way around a corner.

  Everything was black. He couldn't see above, behind, or ahead of him. He
couldn't get the image of rats scurrying over his hands out of his head. He crawled through an HVAC duct system, not a sewer. Still, the sensation of dust mites brushing against him made his skin crawl.

  He wriggled forward, using his elbows to pull the rest of his weight. He gripped the smooth metal of the drone in his hands. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, but he had no way to fix them.

  Two lefts. A right. A left. Almost every time he moved, he accidentally banged a knee or shoulder against the sheet metal walls. He winced, biting the inside of his cheeks.

  If the terrorists heard him, the whole plan went pear-shaped. Schneider assured him that since he wasn't crawling directly over the bridge, a few dings and thumps should be sufficiently muffled. Should be.

  Fear thrummed through him. But there was no going back. The best way out is always through. He repeated the Robert Frost line in his head, his heart beating double time.

  He felt his way around the final left turn, bending his body into a twisted, convoluted L-shape, his stomach and thighs scraping against the sharp corner. It snagged his shirt, and pain sliced the skin above his belly button.

  Sounds filtered through the vent. Voices shouting. One of them he recognized as sure as his own face in the mirror. Gabriel.

  Gabriel shouldn’t be here. He was supposed to be down in the Oceanarium with Amelia, safe from all the death and destruction and chaos. Ice went through him, stabbing all the way to the bone.

  Micah closed his eyes. Would Gabriel be killed in the crossfire? Did it make a difference? Could he risk his brother’s life to save everyone else? Did he even have a choice?

  He couldn't reconcile this hard, angry Gabriel with the brother who'd rescued him from bullies over and over, who'd cradled Micah in his arms that day at the hover park. Gabriel who'd sat on his bed and stroked his hair the times he contracted pneumonia. Gabriel who snuck him oranges and candy bars when they didn't have the money.

  His brother. His family. The only real family he had.

  Gabriel, who might be dead seconds after Micah released the drone. Micah would never get to say all the things he still needed to stay. How could you? I'm sorry and I love you and always, all in the same breath.

  More shouting.

  A gunshot blast.

  It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. This one heinous act overshadowed all the good in Gabriel. No matter how many times Gabriel protected him in the past, Micah couldn't protect him now.

  It was more important to save innocent lives. It had to be. He couldn’t value his brother’s life over so many others. Too many lives were at stake. It was the right thing.

  Grief welled up, but he forced it down. He couldn't let himself feel the staggering pain, not now. All that would come later. If he survived.

  He sucked in his breath, more dusty air gagging his throat.

  Almost there. He recalled the complicated HVAC blueprints, trying to guestimate his location. Crawl five feet past the turn. No further, or risk being riddled with bullets like a fish trapped in a claustrophobic metal barrel.

  Dim light filtered through the vent two yards in front of him. He could barely make out the shape of the drone gripped in his hands. He fumbled for the switch and activated the thing as Jericho instructed.

  A spray of bullets punctured the air duct, not two feet ahead of him. He froze. More shouting from below. Time was up. He had to act. His mother’s words came back to him. Be good. Be brave.

  He whispered a prayer as he released the drone and gave it a gentle push. It whooshed silently, hovering a few inches above the duct. The drone landed on top of the grate, clicked, and let out a soft hiss.

  Smoke spewed into the bridge. Chaos erupted.

  Micah closed his eyes. As the sound of gunshots filled his ears, his mind repeated the same word over and over.

  Always.

  44

  Amelia

  Kane dragged Amelia by her hair down a long hallway. He opened a door and shoved her inside. She caught glimpses of a conference room with a large table and chairs, a living room with brocaded sofas in nautical colors, a large holoscreen on the far wall. The captain's quarters.

  Kane pushed her through another doorway into the bedroom. He threw her into the king-sized sleep pod, the lid already wide open. Her head bounced hard against the curved side. Her clutch knocked out of her hand.

  Then he was on her, breathing stinking tobacco-breath in her face, yanking at the jewel-encrusted straps of her dress.

  Her vision blurred. The bowed lid of the sleep pod shimmered above her in bursting shades of pink, yellow, white. Her stomach lurched. A migraine. It was fitting—every terrible thing coming down on her at once, like a dreadful punishment for every sin she'd ever committed.

  She was going to die. Not with a bullet. A far worse way. This man was hurting her. He enjoyed hurting her. And when he finished with that, he would hurt her more. She smelled it on him, in his pungent sweat. She felt it in the tautness of his body, in the way he drank in her fear with those vicious, viper eyes.

  Time slowed. She saw everything. The blinking blue nodules of the sleep pod. A smudge of a handprint on the glass doors leading to the veranda. A priceless Picasso painting hung on one wall. And Kane looming over her, the pores enlarged in his skin, the cords standing out on his neck, that awful, snarling smile.

  She felt everything. The cushioned, silken base of the pod rubbing against her back. His hands like giant scrabbling spiders on her shoulders, her legs. And her brain—on fire, pulsing, throbbing.

  Her whole body trembled, shuddering against the pain and terror and revulsion.

  She was alone. Abandoned. No one would come for her. She was just a tool, a pawn to use and discard. Everyone used her. Here, finally, was the worst way to use a person.

  This animal would take everything from her: her dignity, her sense of self, her safety. The very core of her—stolen without her consent.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks as he ripped her dress.

  “You awake, girl?” he growled. “Don't disappear on me. This is the best part.”

  She groaned, tried to pull away. “Please . . .”

  He slapped her hard in the face. “Let’s have some atmosphere, shall we? What are you partial to, jazz? Piano? Oh, I know. How about the violin?”

  He leaned away and said something to the AI. Music flared through the stateroom.

  Amelia recognized Bach’s Chaccone from Partita no. 2, a demanding piece she’d been working on for years. The sweetly bitter, ominous notes of the violin flowed through her, swelling through her aching skull. The walls of the stateroom shimmered with shivering tendrils of smoky purple, sapphire blue, and shades of night—indigo, dusk, and deepest black.

  “There, that’s better. Now, where were we?”

  The hammering inside her head intensified. Pain throbbed in her brain, needling her scalp and the base of her neck.

  Use what you have.

  She blinked, forcing herself to focus.

  Use what you have.

  She was helpless. She'd been given up by her father, by Gabriel. They had no more use for her. They didn't see her. She thought they had—she'd tried to make them—but she was wrong.

  The bright lights seared her eyes, the music a pulse of pain. The migraine streaked through her skull, cracking her open, splitting her into pieces. It felt like dying. Over and over again. Dying and returning to life, only to die again.

  Use what you have.

  Her mind tried to leave, to drift away, to escape the horror, but the pain wouldn't let her. It chained her to the present, to the bed, to what was being done and who was doing it.

  But this pain she knew. This pain was her oldest, most bitter friend. A pain she suffered through, over and over. Endured. Survived. Her migraines didn't kill her. The seizures didn't kill her. She outlasted them. She beat them.

  She knew pain. And she knew how to survive it. She'd survived pain her whole life. She could do it again.

  Use what you ha
ve.

  Amelia opened her eyes. Splotches of colored lights swam in her vision. But she could see enough. She could move.

  Kane was wrong. He thought he tortured her by blasting her favorite music, but the violin was hers. No one could take it from her. Not her father, and not this low-life scum.

  Bach’s Chaccone was a dance, but it was a dance full of grief and pain, hauntingly beautiful in its paradox. She could dance through her pain. She could fight through it.

  As the towering fifth and final movement soared, she gathered herself the way she gathered herself before a performance. She coiled her strength inside herself.

  And then she struck. She clawed his face, catching his cheek and part of his left eyeball. He reared back, howling.

  She rolled to the side and launched herself out of the sleep pod. She hit the marble floor and scrambled to her hands and knees. She leapt to her feet and sprinted for the door, half stumbling as vertigo gripped her, the floor rolling violently.

  He lunged at her from behind. He was fast, too fast. He seized her around the waist and dragged her back, throwing her to the floor.

  Her skull hit the ground, cracking her teeth together. Fresh agony ruptured behind her eyes. Kane smashed his fist into her face. Everything went dark and blurry. He hovered over her, a grotesque shadow.

  She smelled his rage. It stung her nostrils like the stench of burning rubber, something dark and bitter.

  He grabbed her arms and pinned them above her head. “You like to play rough, is that it?”

  Acid surged up her throat, but she fought it down. Terror mingled with the adrenaline spiking through her. There was no time to be afraid. She gathered her strength and kneed him in the crotch.

  He fell back, clutching himself. “I'll kill you!”

  She rolled to the side and tried to get to her feet, but the pain gripped her head in a savage vise. Convulsions rippled through her. She fell to her knees. She'd never reach the door.

  Use what you have.

  She turned, franticly clawing at the floor, scrambling on her hands and knees toward the sleep pod. Acid churned in her gut, the wave of nausea almost knocking her flat. Her vision swam in and out of focus. She blinked furiously.