Rising Storm: The Last Sanctuary: Book One

by Kyla Stone

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

  “He deserves to die. I thought that's what we were 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? There's only one thing 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 shouted.

  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, as if it were alive. “Looks like the party's starting early.”

  “Hostiles!” one of Cheng's men shouted, pointing 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.

  45

  Micah

  Micah had never felt more claustrophobic in his life. The sheet metal walls closed in on him in the darkness. The air was stale and dirty. 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 already 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. This was 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 when his shoulder was split open. Gabriel who'd sat on his bed and stroked his hair the times he contracted pneumonia. Gabriel who snuck him oranges and candy bars even 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. All the good in Gabriel was overshadowed by this one heinous act. No matter how many times Gabriel had 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 barely made 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.
<
br />   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.

  46

  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 office chairs, a living room with fancy brocaded sofas, a large holoscreen on the far wall. The captain's quarters.

  Kane pushed her through another narrow doorway. The bedroom.

  He threw her onto the old-fashioned bed, knocking her clutch out of her hand. Her head bounced hard on the mattress. 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 beige ceiling tiles above her shimmered in bursting shades of pink, yellow, white. Her stomach lurched, and she gagged. A migraine. She was having a migraine attack at the worst possible moment. Or maybe 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 was done with that, he was going to hurt her even more. She smelled it on him, in his pungent sweat, 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 wooden bedposts. The flimsy curtains drawn over the French doors to the veranda. The black buttons of his uniform, one of them missing. 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 nubby fabric of the comforter rubbing against her back. His hands like giant scrabbling spiders on her shoulders, her legs. And her brain—on fire, pulsing, pounding, throbbing. Her whole body trembled, shuddering against the pain and terror and revulsion.

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

  The hammering inside her skull 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 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 have.

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

  She could fight.

  She coiled her strength inside herself. 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 off the bed. She hit the carpet and scrambled to her hands and knees. Her dress caught in the metal corner of the springs holding up the mattress. She ripped the material free in one frantic movement, her hands shaking.

  She leapt to her feet and ran for the door, half stumbling as vertigo gripped her and the floor rolled violently.

  But he was behind her. He lunged and he was fast, too fast. He grabbed 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. He 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. But 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, frantic, clawing the carpet, scrambling on her hands and knees toward the bed. Acid churned in her gut, the wave of nausea almost knocking her flat. Her vision swam in and out of focus. She blinked furiously. Where was it? Where was it!

  She heard him behind her. Coming for her. Enraged and hungry for violence, for blood.

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

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

  The world became silent. Sound drained away. She couldn't hear a thing. Could barely see. She used her hands, her sense of touch, the way she always did when the pain was a train roaring down on her, tracks quaking beneath her feet.

  He was on top of her, his knife at her throat. He pressed hard, the blade slicing through her skin. His eyes gleamed, sharp and menacing. “Die, bitch.”

  “You first,” she said.

  She stabbed the epi-pen into his right eyeball and depressed the plunger.

  47

  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. His mouth, tongue, and throat felt seared from the particles that filtered through his paper mask.

  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 ass.

  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 quickly. 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 wildly 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 already 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.