Rising Storm: The Last Sanctuary: Book One

by Kyla Stone

  “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 was betraying 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, here.”

  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,” she said. “I don’t even know your favorite color.”

  He snorted. “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.”

  36

  Willow

  “Did you hear something?”

  Willow froze inside the cabinet beneath the sink of the coffee bar. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  The terrorist stood directly in front of her. She stared through the two-inch opening at the gun swinging at his side until her eyes watered. Her lungs burned for air. Please just go the hell away.

  “Nah, you must be imagining things,” the guy said finally. “Let’s go.”

  Their heavy boots crunched through glass as the terrorists left the bar and made their way down the empty corridor. The silence returned, thick and heavy.

  She closed her eyes. She gulped in mouthfuls of stale air, so relieved she could've 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 blood.

  She pressed a hand towel against the cuts on her palm to staunch the flow, the way her mom 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.

  She 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, carefully to avoid the fragments of glass.

  It had been hours since she’d had anything to eat or drink. She had no idea what time it was. 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. 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 main 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 felt like it might be her last.

  Blood smeared the floor, mingling with shattered glass. Bodies were 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.

  37

  Micah

  Micah followed the group as 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. The space was at least twenty feet by twenty feet. Bathrooms on one side, elevators on the other. The closed doors to the deck were 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.”

  “You need to 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, barely 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 were discussing which steak to order for dinner. He was with 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 whispered 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 to our benefit: from inside, the view is limited. 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 bullsh—”

  “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. Micah 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 even more exposed out on the deck. But if they didn't send out a distress signal, no one would know where they were. No one would rescue them.

  Expendable or not, he had to do this. Expendable or not, he could still be brave. He decided who he was, not these people. 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. He could feel it thrumming inside his chest, vibrating in his bones, his teeth. For a second, he was frozen, both in fear and awe.

  Jericho pushed him from behind. “Go!” he hissed. “Stay on your toes.”

  Micah slid across the deck and hit the glass railing stomach-first. It was like a punch to the gut, but he barely noticed. The orange-bottomed, plexiglass lifeboat swayed next to him, strapped to its cradle. He stared at it.

  The canvas cover was slit and flapping in the wind, 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 already gotten to the emergency beacons and ripped them out or destroyed them. All of them.

  Thunder exploded overhead. Something whizzed by him. A crack that was distinctively not thunder. The wind was 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. There's no one 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 going 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.”

  38

  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 felt thick in his mouth. He couldn't speak.

  “Gabriel,” Simeon said, his voice darkening. “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 were clasped together in her lap. She looked exhausted. His heart 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 easily 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.”

  Gabriel felt dizzy, unstable, like more than the floor was tilting. The foundation of his life was shifting, breaking apart beneath his feet. “What's going on?”

  “I'll explain later. But Gabriel, you are a Patriot. You have a duty to the people—your people. If we fail now, the death toll will be staggering.”

  “But the girl. She's innocent.”

  “We don't have time for this!” Simeon's voice rose sharply. “You know this. Every war has casualties! Every revolution is built on the deaths of innocents. This is the only way.”

  His mouth felt like it was full of nails. He didn't speak. He couldn't.

  “Are you going to throw away everything you believe in because of some rich bitch you’ve suddenly developed feelings for?”

  He closed his eyes. He did have feelings for her. He’d fought against it for as long as he could. But she’d gotten to him. Her dignity, her vulnerability, her honesty, her strange ability to be both weak and strong at the same time. How her skin crinkled around her eyes when she smiled, how a real smile lit up her whole face. “She’s not a bitch.”

  “Would you sacrifice your own life to save thousands—maybe millions of lives, Gabriel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sometimes it is not our own life we
must sacrifice. Do you understand?”

  His throat constricted. “I—”

  “You have always been loyal,” Simeon said. “You’ve been my most faithful recruit. I believe in you. Since you were fourteen years old and you showed your unflinching strength and courage against those bullies, I’ve believed in you. Don’t let me down now, son.”

  “I won’t.” The but hung in the air between them.

  Simeon sighed. “I give you my word, Gabriel. I will not harm her. But millions of innocent lives are on the line. I need you to think of them.”

  Gabriel let out his breath. His shoulders slumped. “I understand, sir.”

  “We’re on the brink of a great victory, son. Bring her to the bridge.”

  Gabriel clipped his walkie-talkie to his belt. He walked back to the platform on legs like concrete blocks. Everything he'd longed for, worked for, fought and bled for. A great victory for the New Patriots and the country. A great defeat against the greedy, corrupted elite. But at what cost?

  She would never forgive him. For one stupid moment, he'd allowed himself to believe their little bubble would go on indefinitely, unburst by the outside world. But that was impossible.

  It didn't matter how strong their feelings were for each other. It didn't even matter if they loved each other, or could love each other someday, if given the chance. They were on opposite sides in a hidden war waging for decades, for centuries.

  If he didn't bring her to the bridge, it would be treason. Simeon and the New Patriots would disown him, or worse. They were his brothers. His family. Simeon, who was like a father to him, who'd taken him under his wing and trained him and given him his dignity, his life. Simeon gave him meaning after the meaningless death of his parents. Simeon gave him a purpose, a duty.

  He could never betray Simeon. He could never betray the cause. It would be betraying himself.

  Innocent people were dying. The stakes had just been raised exponentially. Whatever was happening on the mainland with the epidemic, Simeon believed Black had the true vaccine. He must be withholding it for his own kind.