The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  Where was it? Where was it!

  She heard him behind her. He was coming for her. Enraged and hungry for violence, for blood.

  There it was. Beneath the bed. She cried out with relief.

  She saw him out of the corner of her eye. He lunged for her, lightning fast and lethal, the flash of a blade in his hand.

  The world became silent. The music faded to nothing. Sound drained away. She couldn't hear a thing. Could hardly see. She used her hands, her sense of touch, the way she always did when the pain roared down on her like a train, tracks quaking beneath her feet.

  He leapt on top of her, his knife at her throat. He pressed hard until the blade sliced through the top layers of her skin. Blood trickled down the hollow of her throat. His eyes gleamed, sharp and menacing. “Die, you little—”

  “You first,” she said.

  Amelia stabbed the auto-injector into his right eyeball and depressed the plunger.

  45

  Micah

  Micah huddled in the darkness of the HVAC duct, his muscles aching. His eyes burned and watered from the remnants of the tear gas. The particles that filtered through his paper mask seared his mouth, tongue, and throat.

  But he’d escaped the worst of it. He waited, tense and trembling, utterly helpless as he listened to the fierce gunfight below him.

  It seemed like an eternity before the grate screwed off and dim blue light radiated into the duct. He crawled forward with his elbows and pushed his head out of the vent.

  Strong arms grabbed him and pulled him the rest of the way. He dropped from the vent to the floor, landing unceremoniously on his butt.

  Jericho hauled him to his feet. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  He doubled over, coughing and spitting. He rubbed his face, and his hand came back smudged gray with dirt and dust. He wiped his filthy glasses on a semi-clean corner of his shirt and slipped them back on.

  The smoke had dissipated. The room stank of vomit. There were bodies. His heart seized. “What happened?”

  “Two escaped with Declan Black as a hostage.” Jericho's nostrils flared, his eyes jagged with rage. “We couldn't risk harm to Black. Watched the assholes just walk out of here.” He explained how he'd followed them at a safe distance up to the top deck. A helicopter had hovered over the lido deck, a ladder whipping in the wind. Black's captors had escaped, abandoning the ship and its passengers—including their own men—to burn.

  Schneider’s men freed the hostages and moved them to the hall. They were limp, unconscious, except for a woman who coughed violently, her eyes streaming with tears from the gas.

  Schneider stood at the bridge console, working on getting communications back up and steering them out of the storm. The ship still rolled, but not as sharply as before. The rain slashed the windows, but with less ferocity.

  Soon, the storm would be over. But it wasn’t finished yet.

  Schneider hit one long blast to signal an emergency evacuation, then punched the red button on the PA system. “This is CSO Schneider speaking. We have retaken the bridge. Repeat, we have retaken the bridge. All crew report to your emergency evacuation stations. Passengers, as soon as it is safe to do so, please make your way to the starboard lifeboats on Deck Four.

  “And for those of you who have attacked this ship and the good people on board, the U.S. Navy has been notified, and they are en route. There are no boats coming for you. I repeat, your leadership has abandoned you, escaping via chopper. If you release your hostages and make your way immediately to the portside lifeboats, no one on this ship will attempt to stop you.”

  “You and Silas head for the lifeboats,” Jericho said. “We're going to take the muster stations and free the remaining hostages.”

  “You better hurry.” Schneider swiped a screen on the console, his frown deepening. “Fire zones one, two, and five are compromised. The explosions have flooded two compartments. More than three, and we sink. I’ve closed the watertight doors below deck and the fire-resistant doors, but the fires are hot and spreading. We don’t have much time.”

  “We'll get rid of those bastards one way or another,” Jericho said.

  Micah opened his mouth, about to ask about Gabriel’s fate, but he hesitated. If they knew his brother was a terrorist, would they continue to trust him? Would they suspect him, too? Or worse, just shoot him to be safe? No. He would have to find out himself.

  A sharp, metallic stench filled his nostrils, mixing with the stink of gunpowder. He forced his gaze to the floor. Several bodies were scattered around the bridge. He counted nine dead. Two more were mortally wounded, sure to bleed out in the next few minutes.

  His stomach curdled as he stepped over the bodies, searching each one for Gabriel. He wasn't there. Micah checked and rechecked each body. Two more lay crumpled behind the main console.

  Neither of them Gabriel. His brother was not among the dead.

  Impossible. He'd heard Gabriel's voice.

  “Looking for someone?”

  Micah stiffened.

  Silas slouched against the wall, staring at him with those dark, penetrating eyes. He'd been watching him the whole time.

  His stomach dropped. “Why would you say that?”

  Silas only smirked. “He's down the corridor.”

  Micah didn't ask who. Silas knew. The way he'd been looking at him all night, scrutinizing him. But now there was no confusion. Just smug, contemptuous recognition.

  “Is he—?”

  “Restrained and under guard. So he can stand trial for his crimes. But he's alive.” Silas arched his brow. “That a good thing? Or bad?”

  Anger shot through him. Silas hit much too close to the mark. Micah didn't know what he wanted. Alive. He wanted his brother alive. Beyond that, he had no idea. He shouldered past Silas into the corridor.

  Three rescued hostages sat in the hallway. One man moaned, clutching a bullet wound in his stomach. The other two appeared unconscious.

  And there he was. His brother, the terrorist. Gabriel slumped against the wall a dozen yards further down the corridor. Hands cuffed in front of him, his crisp officer's uniform sullied with blood, some blotches faded to brown, some still bright red. One of Schneider's men stood guard several feet away.

  Could he go to him? Could he bear to confront Gabriel, to look into that face he knew as well as his own, had loved more than himself? He blinked, fighting back the wave of grief and despair.

  Someone grabbed his pant leg. One of the hostages, her dark hair wild around her face. He recognized her despite the blood and the mascara smudging her cheeks. “Mrs. Black.”

  “You were in the Oasis dining room. When it happened.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” he said in a strangled voice.

  Silas crouched in front of his mother. “Are you okay?”

  Mother and son looked at each other. Mrs. Black's face held a complicated expression Micah couldn't read: a blend of relief, hope, fear, and regret. She lifted her hand as if to reach for Silas.

  It fluttered for a moment in the space between them before she let it drop into her lap. She rubbed the red marks on her wrists instead, smiling shakily. “Silas. I've been praying every second for you and Amelia. I'm—I'm so thankful you're okay.”

  “You too.”

  “It was horrible. I was so scared, every second. And then he took her—” She looked from Silas to Micah, as if she’d awakened from a terrible nightmare only to realize it was still happening. “He took her!”

  Silas stiffened. “Took who?”

  “Amelia! She was here, in the bridge. They hurt her—” Her mouth contorted. “That monster took her.”

  His chest tightened. The fear that nagged at him in the ducts settled in his gut like a block of ice. Micah had left Amelia in the Oceanarium. He'd believed Gabriel wouldn't hurt her. Not an innocent girl. He couldn't have.

  But Gabriel did. He brought her to the bridge and handed her over to brutal thugs, to killers. Micah was so naïve, stupidly trusting in the brother
he thought he knew. But maybe he never did.

  Maybe you could never truly know another person beyond what they wanted you to see. Or beyond what you wanted to see in them.

  “Where is she?” Silas asked, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

  “I don't know!” his mother said.

  “Think! You were there!”

  “I don't know!”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He—he was big—strong. He had eyes like . . . like he was doing things to you, in his mind. Oh, Silas. He's going to kill her!” She covered her mouth with her hands, stifling a sob.

  Silas leapt to his feet and turned to Micah. “Where would you go, if you were gonna—” He grimaced, unable to finish the sentence.

  Micah bit the inside of his cheeks so hard he tasted blood. “I don’t know where he’d take her, but I know someone who would.”

  He strode down the corridor. The floor jerked, and he steadied himself against the wall. Fury rose in him, blotting out the pain, the betrayal. He would mourn later.

  Gabriel's eyes were closed. Micah kicked his leg. “Wake up!”

  His eyes fluttered open. “Micah. You're safe.”

  The affection in his gaze struck him like a savage punch to the gut. “No thanks to you.”

  Gabriel lifted his bound hands and tilted his chin at the guard standing a dozen feet away, talking into his walkie-talkie. “Tell him you'll relieve him. He doesn't know who you are. We can get out of here, grab one of the lifeboats before anyone knows we're gone.”

  Micah’s heart pulsed like a bruise. He could hardly bear to look Gabriel in the face. Disgust and revulsion warred with loyalty, tenderness, love. And grief, over everything, like a towering tsunami bearing down on him. “You did this. You helped kill all these people.”

  “I'd take it back if I could, I swear to you. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake.”

  He couldn't listen to Gabriel's wounded voice. Couldn't let his emotions get in the way. “Where's Amelia?”

  A shadow passed over his brother's face.

  “Where is she? Answer me!”

  “Dead,” Gabriel said in an agonized voice.

  “Gabriel, please!”

  “Captain's quarters. He took her to the captain's quarters. But it's too late for her, Micah. I'm so sorry. I never meant for this. Never. You have to believe me—”

  “I did believe you. I believed you wouldn’t actually hurt anyone. But you brought her here. You let them take her.”

  Gabriel’s face contorted. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

  Micah stood and backed away.

  Desperation shone in Gabriel’s eyes. “Just us?”

  The word always disintegrated on his tongue. He couldn't listen anymore. His heart would shatter if he did. “You’re my brother. You’ll always be my brother. I love you, but I can’t save you.”

  “Micah!”

  “I’m sorry.” It felt like a betrayal, turning his back on his only family, the brother he loved more than himself. It felt like losing his own soul. Like everything he'd ever loved crumbled to dust in his hands.

  “Let's go!” he called to Silas, his voice breaking.

  Silas came toward him, hefting his rifle. He pointed it at Gabriel, though his gaze was locked on Micah. “Aren't you a traitor like your filthy rat of a brother? Why should I listen to you?”

  Micah swallowed back the howl of outrage and grief and horror. “Because I know where she is. You want to save her?”

  Silas scowled, but he nodded.

  “Micah, I'm sorry—” Gabriel pleaded. “Forgive me.”

  But Micah and Silas were already gone.

  46

  Willow

  Willow clutched the rifle to her chest with one hand and gripped Benjie's small fingers in the other. She led the caravan down several flights of stairs. Nadira hurried behind her, the other two staff members taking up the rear.

  A massive explosion shook the walls and trembled the stairs. The lights flickered then went out, plunging them into darkness. Several children cried out.

  “It's okay,” Nadira said.

  “Lo Lo!” Benjie squeezed her hand.

  “Just wait.” A moment later, the dim emergency lights along the floor switched on. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the murky gloom. Suddenly every shadow seemed alive, taunting her. “Okay, let's go. Hurry!”

  They followed her down another set of stairs to Deck Six. The smell of smoke filled her nostrils. She leaned over the stairwell railing and glimpsed a dark gray haze seeping up the stairs from below.

  That way was blocked. They would have to take the Royal Promenade to the aft stairwell down to the lifeboats on Deck Four.

  The ship lurched violently, and she stumbled, holding onto the wall for balance for a moment before forcing herself to move again. She rounded the corner fast, several steps into the foyer when she froze.

  Movement. A glimpse of a shadow to the right.

  She gestured for Nadira to stop. Nadira retreated to the stairs, but Willow and Benjie didn't have time. Her gaze spun, frantically searching for safety. The elevator alcove was across the foyer. It was the best option.

  She yanked Benjie's hand and dashed across the open space, rounding the corner of the alcove. She pressed her finger to her lips. Benjie nodded, eyes wide with terror.

  She peeked around the alcove wall. Nadira and the children were out of sight. They must be huddled on the stairs, blocked from view by the stairwell wall. Safe, for the moment.

  If whoever was coming just walked straight through, without turning to the stairwell to the left or the elevators to the right, the dim lighting and the shadows might hide them. They might survive this.

  Then she saw the blood illuminated by the emergency floor lighting. Her bloody footprints, dark and conspicuous on the gold carpet. The cuts on her feet from the coffee bar display case had been bleeding all this time, and she hadn't even noticed. The prints led straight to the alcove they were huddled within.

  The sound of heavy footsteps drew closer. She shrank back against the elevator door, her heart thudding in her chest. Benjie covered his mouth with his hands.

  He stared at her in desperation, his face reddening. He had to cough. Not now. Please not now.

  She pressed her hands over his. He shook from the effort of holding it in. Her own throat closed like a vise, cutting off her breath.

  The footsteps stopped. He'd seen the blood. This very second, his gaze followed the footprints straight to the alcove.

  Then he stood in front of her, only a few yards away. Even in the dim lighting, she saw him clearly. He wasn't wearing a ski mask. He had blonde hair and a long, horsey face. He lifted his rifle.

  “Stay back!” Hopefully Nadira and the other kids would run back up the stairs while the terrorist's attention focused on her. But she couldn't worry about that now. Not with the muzzle of an automatic rifle pointed straight at her.

  She swallowed, her heart punched into her throat. Her palms were damp, Benjie's hand slipping inside hers. Benjie's cough exploded from his chest. He choked, half-coughing, half-sobbing. She clutched his hand tighter.

  “You don't have to do this!” Her voice shook. “The ship is burning. We're all just trying to escape with our lives. You can let us go.”

  “None of you elitist scum deserve to live,” he spat. He advanced, mumbling curses under his breath and jabbing the gun at them like a spear. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. Blood stains splattered his shirt and smeared his neck.

  He had no wounds. It wasn’t his blood.

  He was going to kill them. Not because he had to. Because he could.

  Time seemed to slow. Terror screamed at her to run. And maybe she could. She was fast. She could weave and dodge. Maybe she'd get away.

  But Benjie wouldn't. He was too small, his legs too short. He wouldn't be able to escape.

  Unless there was a distraction. Unless this vicious bastard had a more appetizing target. She could sav
e herself, but she couldn't save them both.

  The decision took only a moment. She knew what her mom would want her to do. Take care of them. She was Ate. It was her responsibility.

  “When I tell you—” she squeezed Benjie's hand, “I want you to run. Don't stop. Pretend it's magic. Pretend if you're fast enough, you'll disappear.”

  I love you. And I'm sorry. But there wasn't time to say those things. She let go of Benjie's hand.

  Her gaze never left the terrorist's face. Fear churned in her gut, but also something else. Resignation. And something like peace. Take care of them. To save her family, she had to be willing to do anything.

  This was it. Now or never.

  She stepped in front of her brother.

  47

  Micah

  Micah and Silas raced down the starboard corridor to the third door, marked with a gold placard titled, ‘Captain Liebenberg.’

  He tried the handle. “It's locked. Schneider will have a master key.”

  “We’re out of time!” Silas rammed his shoulder against the door. It shuddered but didn't give.

  Inside, someone screamed.

  Micah’s breath stilled in his chest. They'd found her. She was alive. But the terror in that scream iced his veins.

  “Amelia!” He pounded his fists against the door. He backed up and ran at the door again.

  “Use your rifle!”

  Silas swung the rifle around and smashed it against the old-fashioned brass door handle. It broke off after four tries.

  Micah and Silas kicked the door until it crashed open.

  There was a living room area, a holoscreen, and an opened door to what he assumed was the bedroom. Dimly, he heard music blaring, but his brain hardly registered any of these things. He and Silas raced into the bedroom.

  Two bodies grappled on the floor beside the sleep pod. For a horrific moment, he couldn't tell what was happening. Then his vision focused.