by Kyla Stone
Gabriel could do something. Must do something. He must help save thousands, possibly millions of lives. This was what he'd longed for, worked for, fought for.
He closed his eyes against the dread coursing through him, the pain like a physical ache in his chest. Simeon was right, as always. He must act. This was his duty. This was his chance to make a real and lasting difference for his people. His own peace—his own happiness—was inconsequential.
Gabriel clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. She would hate him. And he would deserve her hatred. After the risk she had taken for him, refusing to hurt him or escape when she had the chance—she would hate him, and he would have to live with that.
He had argued for her life. It was all he could give her. It would have to be enough. “Amelia.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed up at him, smiling, her face open and trusting.
It felt like boiling water pouring into his chest. “Amelia. I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“The bridge.”
A gap opened in the startled silence.
He pulled his gun out of his holster. He couldn't let his guard down. Not again.
Her smile flickered. Her gaze shifted from his face to the gun hanging loose at his side, a terrible understanding dawning in her eyes.
He expected her to beg, to cry, to try to convince him to change his mind again. But she didn't. She just stared at him, aghast. “Why?”
“You know why.” His voice sounded hollow and distant in his own ears.
“I thought you were good.”
“I am good! But sometimes goodness demands sacrifice.”
“And I'm it? I'm your sacrifice?”
“This is so much bigger than you and me. That's what you'll never understand.”
“I could have killed you. But I didn't. I could have run. I didn't. I chose you.”
The words were barbed wire on his tongue. “You chose wrong.” He gestured with the gun. “Now move.”
A thousand emotions flitted across her face simultaneously. She raised her chin. “And if I don't?”
He hated every word he spoke. He hardened his voice, hardened his heart. “I’ll knock you unconscious with the butt of my gun and carry you there.”
She remained still.
“Move!”
“May I bring my clutch?” It lay on the floor next to her feet.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was cold, emotionless. The same as his own.
She picked up her clutch and rose to her feet. She walked in front of him, her back straight, her shoulders squared, her posture perfect. She looked regal, dignified as a queen.
He longed to say I'm sorry, a thousand times I'm sorry.
The words died in his throat.
39
Willow
A bullet struck the wall less than a foot from Willow’s head. There was a sudden shout above her.
She sprinted down the nearest hallway, her knife gripped in one hand. It had taken her the better part of an hour to escape Deck Ten and make her way up to Fourteen. Like Eleven and Twelve, it mainly consisted of staterooms, but the bow of Fourteen contained the Kid Zone. The corridor in front of her was long and narrow, the stateroom doors all on the left side. Each doorway offered only a shallow alcove.
There was nowhere to hide.
More shouting behind her. A flurry of gunshots. Bullets peppered the wall above her head. They weren't bothering with the ruse of hostages anymore. They were shooting to kill. If she wasn't so short, she'd be dead already.
She cut to the left, then the right. Screw it. It was only slowing her down. She lunged left and slammed into a stateroom door, thrusting her mom’s wristband at the sensors. There was a beep and the door released.
She fell into the room just as another bullet whizzed over her head, so close she felt it in her hair. She leapt up and hurled herself at the door, locking it with shaking fingers.
“Welcome, Guest!” the room AI said in a calm, irritating voice. “Your stress indicators are elevated.”
“Nothing gets past you, Sherlock.” Willow scanned the room. Sleep pod. Ornate settee. Closet. Mirrored Vanity. Bathroom. The exact same furnishings as her own stateroom, only larger and fancier. Hiding was futile. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape.
“May I suggest a relaxing rejuvenation facial to lower your biostats to a comfortable and pleasant level? A personal beautician can be delivered to your room in—”
“Just shut the hell up!” she hissed.
Someone banged on the wood door, angry male voices shouting curses. She had only a few moments before they shot or rammed their way in. A strong breeze tousled her hair. Rain spat through the opened sliding glass door.
She ran for the veranda.
The rain hit her like a slap in the face. Lightning stitched the sky. She was drenched instantly, her dress sodden, her hair plastered to her scalp.
She inched across the veranda and forced herself to lean over the glass railing. Vertigo rushed through her. The seething sea was well over a hundred feet down. From up here, the waves lashed the hull like heaving mountains.
Her heart stopped beating. Her legs turned to lead. She gripped the railing with whitened knuckles. No, no, no. Don't look down.
More shouting.
It was either jump, climb, or die.
Willow chose to climb.
She moved to the left side of the veranda on wobbly legs. A thin metal wall separated the balconies. The wall didn't protrude any further than the railing itself. She felt along the edge. It was slick, but several large two-inch bolts stuck out on either side.
“Oh, hell.” The wind snatched her words before they'd left her mouth and hurled them down, down, down. Into the abyss. Her stomach lurched. Don't look. Don't look.
She took a deep, shuddering breath.
She had to move fast. No hesitation. And no mistakes.
She grabbed a patio chair and wedged it against the side wall and the railing. She slipped the knife carefully inside her bra and hiked her (stupid, ridiculous) dress over her hips, tucking it into her underwear. She imagined Zia laughing at her, doing that weird shoulder-hunch donkey-laugh thing she always did. The pain struck her between the ribs: sharp, almost unbearable.
She couldn't think about that now. First, she had to survive.
Willow stepped on the chair and grabbed the inside bolt on the wall with her left hand and the outside bolt with her right. She swung her leg over the glass railing, past the wall, and over the railing on the next veranda. There was no chair on that side to rest her weight. She pressed her body against the wall, bending her knees to wrap her legs around the top of the railing. She clung to the bolts with all her strength.
Vertigo surged, pulsing through her in swooping, dizzying waves. Her terror grew talons and fangs and wings.
The wind lashed her, whipping thick strands of hair into her eyes. Rain pelted her like stones. Thunder crashed so close it was like a supernova exploding inside her, trembling every cell in her body.
The ship rolled. Her right hand slipped and her body started to sway. She shifted, sliding backward. She clutched frantically at empty air. Her arms flailed, her fingernails scraping the slick, wet metal.
Time slowed. The chair slid across the veranda, struck the opposite wall, and tipped over. She was going to fall. She was slipping, falling, about to plunge over the side—
Her fingers found purchase. She gripped the bolt so tightly that a few of her fingernails cracked.
At her back was only infinite space, like a black hole waiting to swallow her up. Don't look down. She didn't want to die. Not now. Not like this. Her fear beat at her with frantic, savage wings. If she moved, she would fall. She was certain of it.
She wasn’t sure God existed, but she prayed anyway. To God, to Buddha, to Poseidon, to any deity who might listen. Don't let me die. She breathed through clenched teeth, every muscle quiverin
g. She had to move. She had to move now.
The ship pitched again, but she was ready this time and moved with it. She scooted her butt on the railing as far as she could to the side while still gripping both bolts. She rocked herself to the right, pushing hard against the glass panel of the railing with her left foot to give her momentum.
She launched herself to the next veranda.
She landed hard on her side, smacking her right hip, forearm, and shoulder against the floor. Her head hit the patio table leg, but she welcomed the stab of pain. She felt every stinging drop of rain striking her skin. She lay on her side, trembling and weak, gasping in great gulps of sweet, beautiful air.
She made it. She made it and she was alive. Short, chubby Willow Bahaghari was a badass, after all. She wanted to whoop and holler and shout in triumph.
The voices came from the other side of the wall. They were on the veranda she’d just come from. She leapt to her feet and shoved herself flat against the wall. She pressed her hands over her chest to still her frantic heart, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.
The rain fell in gusting sheets. Thunder crashed, and the ship rolled so deeply the patio table and chairs scraped across the floor and tumbled against the railing.
“She ain't here!” one of the terrorists yelled. “Must've jumped!”
The other one said something in another language, too quiet for her to make out in the storm.
“Too bad!” the first one said, and laughed.
Finally, they left. She was alone. Rain ran in rivulets down her cheeks, dripping off the tip of her nose. Lightning shattered the sky. And hundreds of feet below her, the sea writhed, still ravenous.
Not today. You won't get me today.
She untucked her dress and pushed it down around her thighs with trembling fingers. Goosebumps peppered her flesh. All the black hairs on her legs she always missed while shaving stood on end. Her nails were ragged and torn, the muscles in her hands throbbing.
She hugged herself to keep from shivering. It was useless. The wet chill leeched into her bones. She'd be cold for the rest of her life.
But she was alive.
And she had an idea. She crept back to the glass railing and leaned over the edge, squinting through the pouring rain. The Kid Zone deck was directly to her right. Only three verandas from her own.
The thought of climbing the exterior of a storm-tossed cruise ship—again—stole the breath from her lungs. But this was the best way. Possibly, the only way.
For Benjie, she would do anything.
Something took shape inside her, alive and winged and fearless.
40
Amelia
Amelia blinked, adjusting to the gloom of the bridge. She remembered the captain explaining how the bridge remained dim at night to aid with navigation. Only the soft florescent glow beneath the control panel and the low lights along the floor illuminated the room. Everyone had spoken in hushed, subdued voices, almost like it was a cathedral, a sacred place.
Except it wasn't a sacred place any longer. The gold carpet was stained with blotches like someone had knocked over crimson paint cans. A dozen terrorists ringed the console, their huge guns dominating the room. Most were dressed in dark clothes and combat gear. The rest wore crew uniforms—security, officers, wait staff.
The bridge smelled sour, like body odor and sweat and fear, but also like something freshly rotting. It smelled like death.
Eight hostages sat along the far wall below the security monitors. Their hands were bound behind their backs. She recognized a few of them from the captain's table. Four of them were already dead, their bodies slumped against the floor. Four more were battered and bloody, alive but unconscious.
Her mother was crumpled on the end nearest the bridge door, her head resting against the shoulder of Senator Omar Ferguson. Her face was bruised and cut in several places. Dark smears stained her arms, her cheeks, and the front of her dress.
“Mother!” Amelia cried. But her mother didn’t look up. Amelia lunged toward her.
A man grabbed her arm and yanked her back. He didn't look like much, at first glance. The second glance revealed the truth: the slow blinking but intelligent, crafty eyes, the red slash of a mouth. “Not yet, my dear. I assure you, she is alive, though unconscious at the moment. But we have more important matters to consider.”
“What do you want?” But she had a good idea.
The man pressed the muzzle of a pulse gun against her side.
“Simeon—” Gabriel said from behind her.
“Leave her alone.” Declan Black sat in the captain's chair, his suit jacket draped over the back. His perfectly coiffed hair was mussed, his crisp white shirt dirtied and torn. Deep shadows were smudged beneath his eyes. Angry purple bruises marred the left side of his face and forehead. His bottom lip was split.
Fresh terror gripped her. Her father was always in the utmost control, ruling his world with an iron fist. Seeing him like this—helpless, impotent, at the mercy of thugs—it terrified her more than she could say. And yet, some tiny part of her whispered, now you know how it feels.
“Let's get on with this.” A man in an officer's uniform stood a little behind and to the right of the captain's chair, his rifle pointed at her father's head. He was huge and muscular, his neck nearly as thick as his head. He looked at her with glittering, rattlesnake eyes. He grinned, teeth bristling.
Her heart constricted. The awful man from the ballroom.
“Soon, Kane. I promise.” Simeon turned toward Amelia, smiling at her like she was an honored guest. “We've calmly explained to your father that we will exchange the vaccine and the cure for his life and the lives of his family members. However, he appears too obstinate to cooperate with us, even for his own good.”
“Go to hell,” Declan growled.
“What are you talking about?” She willed her voice to remain calm. Her throat was dry as sandpaper. “The vaccine was administered to millions of people for National Health Day. The week before last. It was all over the newsfeeds.”
“Oh, yes, my dear.” Simeon's lip curled in disdain. “The so-called vaccine BioGen unleashed on the poor American shmucks hasn't exactly performed as promised, has it?”
A headache pulsed at the back of her skull. She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Do you know they have a name for it now? The Hydra Virus. Fitting, yes? The many-headed beast whose poisonous blood was so virulent even its breath could kill you. Cut off a head and two grow back. Death coming at you from so many directions at once. Virtually impossible to destroy.”
“I don't understand what—”
“Enough!” barked one of the terrorists in combat gear. He wasn't wearing a ski mask. He was East Asian, with malevolent, raven-dark eyes and a scar down one side of his face. He stood with his feet spread, shoulders taut, weapon at the ready.
Simeon removed the gun from her side and placed it against her temple, the metal like cold fire against her skin.
“We've gone through this whole rigmarole so many times already,” Simeon said with a sigh. “Cheng's tired of this. I'm tired of this. Are you tired of this, Kane?”
Kane grunted. “How about we gut her and see how she squeals?”
“Too messy.” Simeon nodded at Kane.
In one smooth movement, Kane pointed his gun at the group of hostages against the wall and shot twice.
The bang exploded against her skull. She clapped her hands over her ringing ears. Someone screamed.
“I apologize, my dear,” Simeon said. “A gunshot is loud at such close range without ear protection, even with a suppressor.”
She couldn't tell at first who was shot. Someone was weeping. A woman. Her mother lifted her head, awake now. But the man next to her wasn't moving. Red bloomed like a flower across his chest. Relief mingled with guilt flooded her. Her mother was still alive, but Omar Ferguson wasn't. Not anymore. A second man groaned. Beside Ferguson, Tyler Horne’s stylishly blonde hair was matted against his skull
. He clutched his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his fingers.
“You monster!” her mother cried.
“I was aiming for you,” Kane said to her mother, but he was looking at Amelia, his lips peeled back like a dog baring its teeth.
“I also have poor aim,” Simeon said amiably. He could have been discussing tomorrow's tee time. The cold barrel of the gun pressed harder against her temple. “Unless, of course, I'm close enough to the target.”
Her mother shrank back against the wall. “Don't hurt her, please! Take me instead. I'm begging you!”
“Sorry, lady,” Simeon said. “We tried that. And if you don't shut up, I'm going to have to let Kane shoot you, too.”
“Hostiles on Deck Four.” The terrorist next to the security monitors pointed at one of the screens. “They're wearing our gear. And they just took out two of our guys.”
Cheng's walkie-talkie hissed static. A deep male voice sputtered something. Cheng's face darkened. “They're headed for the lifeboats. Go.”
Two of his men sprinted to the starboard bridge wing. Muzzles flashed in the darkness.
Cheng's scowl deepened. His scar bulged like an angry worm. “Enough with this foolishness.”
“We're almost finished.” Simeon grabbed her shoulder and shoved her into a kneeling position. “Now, where were we? Gabriel?”
“The cure.” The sound of Gabriel's voice twisted like a knife in her gut.
“Ah, yes. We need the cure now or everyone dies, starting with your daughter.”
“What cure?” she whispered.
“And I kept hearing how clever you were,” Simeon said. “What do you think happened?”
Something sprouted to life, some small niggling thought in the back of her pulsing, aching brain. It was hard to focus, to clear her jumbled thoughts. “There was a mistake, an error. The vaccine doesn't work like it's supposed to.”
