Say the Word

by Julie Johnson

  “I’m so sorry, Lux, they made me call you.” Miri’s voice was trembling with remorse. “They threatened to kill me and my family.”

  “Oh, Miri, no. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who’s sorry — I dragged you into all of this. But we can’t stay here. You have to come with me, right now. We’ll go get help for the rest of them.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, her sad eyes locked on mine. “I won’t leave her.”

  Miri’s body turned slightly, revealing the still form of a young girl lying directly beside her. There was a dangerous rattle in the prostrate girl’s chest — each breath she drew was a struggle, and I feared she wouldn’t last long in this dark cage without medical treatment. I felt my eyes brim with tears as I recognized the once-lustrous chestnut hair, now brittle and tangled, and the dainty features on her beautiful, bruised face.

  Vera.

  I reached a shaking hand out to touch her arm, my cheeks wet with traces of grief. She was clammy with fever, her skin cool to the touch. Lifting my eyes to Miri’s, I wiped my face with my free hand.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  Miri shrugged. “Most of them are like this. They can’t walk, they don’t talk much,” she whispered. “I’m lucky. They didn’t drug me, and I haven’t been here long.”

  “I have to go, Miri.” I told her, feeling my heart tear at the prospect of leaving her and Vera now that I’d finally found them. “I’ll get help. I’ll come back for you.”

  Miri nodded. “I know you will, Lux. But… hurry.”

  I wrapped my arms around her once more and this time she hugged me back.

  “Stay strong, Miri. I’ll find you, again. I promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Now

  I cried all the way to the forward deck, tears blurring my vision as my thoughts lingered on the girls. I’d closed the container when I left so the men on the bridge wouldn't spot the open door, but couldn’t bring myself to bolt it again. If a guard noticed it was unlocked and was alerted to my presence on the vessel… so be it. I refused to leave those girls without even a chance at escape.

  When I reached the bow and climbed the stairs to the upper deck, I was so focused on reaching the gangplank, I didn’t see him until it was too late.

  The Neanderthal.

  He charged me with a grunt, aiming to pin my body between him and the thin, waist-high railing that wrapped the edge of the deck. He didn’t see the gun in my hand. Or, if he did, he figured I wouldn’t have time to fire it.

  He was wrong.

  It was instinctual. His life, or mine.

  I lifted the gun to eye level, cocked back the pin with my thumb, and squeezed the trigger.

  As kids, each Forth of July, Jamie and I would walk down to the lake, plop our butts in the sand, and eat sticky, melting popsicles as fireworks exploded in the air far above our heads. They were distant, beautiful explosions of light and color, burning into ash long before they ever returned to the ground. I remember wishing more than once during those hot summer Independence Day celebrations that they’d blast those fireworks just a little lower, so I might see their vivid sparks up close.

  Tonight, I saw my childhood wish fulfilled.

  The flare exploded from the end of the barrel like a compact firework, its brightness scorching my retinas and forcing my eyes closed. The harsh smell of smoke and gunpowder hung heavy around me, but it was quickly overtaken by an even more disturbing scent — the stench of singed flesh.

  My eyes opened into slits when I heard the Neanderthal’s scream of pain. I watched in horror as the large man clutched the gaping, smoking wound in his abdomen, stumbling backward with uncoordinated steps. The blood drained from my face when he hit the edge of the deck and toppled backward in free-fall. There was a beat of silence, followed by the loud bang of a body landing against the cargo deck far below — the grisly thud sent chills up my spine.

  Soon after, I heard the sound of men yelling on the bridge and the pounding of footsteps as they raced down the rows of shipping containers toward me on the forward deck. I looked to the gangplank on my right, which would lead me to safety, before glancing down at the spare flare round still tucked into my bloodied neckline.

  I had to leave, now, before they caught me. But there was one last thing I had to do first.

  Overtaken by a sudden sense of calm, I loaded the round into the still-hot barrel, cocked back the pin, and raised my arm straight into the air. The sound of the shot hurt my ears as I pulled the trigger and blasted the flare a hundred yards into the night sky, a hovering, vibrant signal of distress that would, hopefully, bring aid to the girls on this ship. It was the least I could do, if I was really going to leave them behind while I fled and sought help.

  Once the round was airborne I spun around, finally ready to make my escape. Breathless, I raced toward the gangplank… and straight into a waiting set of hands that clamped down on my forearms like a vise. My eyes flew to the man’s face and I felt my heart sink when I saw two startlingly green eyes staring back at me with an amused look in their depths.

  “Lux,” Andrew Covington whispered, his eyes sweeping down my form. “It’s been a long time, my dear. And, I must say, you’ve looked better.”

  “Not nearly long enough,” I grumbled, twisting in his arms as I struggled to free myself from his hold.

  He laughed. “Oh, come now. Don’t be a poor sport. It’s so unbecoming.”

  “What’s unbecoming is a grown man who plays lackey to his wife,” I spat back at him. “How pathetic are you, Senator? When was it that you found out about your wife’s extracurricular activities?”

  His eyes grew flinty with anger and his grip tightened on my arms.

  “During your first term? Your second?” I goaded, unable to help myself. “How emasculating was that moment, when you discovered your wife held more power than you ever would?”

  “Shut up,” he growled, walking me backward. “Shut your whore mouth.”

  I fought against him, trying to strike his hand with the empty flare gun still clutched in my fist, but he wrenched my arm in a painful twist that made my fingers spasm and unclench. The gun clattered to my feet as he pressed me up against the railing. One of his hands came up to wrap around my windpipe in a crushing chokehold. Lifting me by my neck, he cut off my air and forced me onto my tiptoes. When he leaned in closer, I felt the upper half of my body bend backward over open air and knew, if he were to push with only a little more force, I’d flip like a playground see-saw and plummet into the icy waters far below.

  A fifty-foot drop.

  I might survive, but I doubted I could swim to safety in this dress without swallowing half the ocean or being dragged to the sea floor.

  “I should’ve gotten rid of you a long time ago,” Andrew muttered. “You’ve been a thorn in my side since you were seventeen.”

  “Good,” I rasped, kicking out with my right foot and landing a sharp blow directly between his legs. He cursed and released me. I landed hard against the deck, further injuring my already sore palms, but knowing it beat the watery alternative. Hauling my aching body into a standing position, I prepared myself for a fight.

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to.

  Andrew had taken a single step in my direction when a figure burst from the gangplank and tackled the senator to the ground. I watched, stunned, as the two men wrestled on the deck, each movement rolling them a little closer to the edge of the platform. My eyes widened further when I saw they were nearly identical — same height, same build, same hair color. The only difference distinguishing father from son was their age gap.

  Bash.

  I gasped as punches rained down, their fistfight quickly escalating into an all out battle for bloodshed. Several times, I started forward to intervene but held off, knowing I might make matters worse. My fingernails bit harshly into my injured palms as I watched the senator pin Bash to the ground, his face reddening as his father’s hands tightened around his
neck. Seconds ticked by, each feeling like an eternity, and I scrambled into action, retrieving my fallen gun so I could knock Andrew out cold.

  I froze several feet away when I saw Bash take back the upper hand. In a move so fast my eyes could barely track it, he swung his legs up abruptly, clipping his father in the chest and pitching the older man onto the hard deck surface.

  I watched as Andrew rolled several feet and slipped over the edge of the platform. His legs and torso dangled midair, his fingertips the only tether holding him in place. Should he fall, he’d hit the unforgiving metal cargo deck below and suffer a fate similar to that of the Neanderthal.

  “Son!” Andrew called in a desperate voice, his eyes locked on Bash. “Help me!”

  Bash gained his feet, wiped his bloodied lip with the sleeve of his suit, and turned to me with worried eyes. I saw his evaluative gaze sweep my form, checking for injuries. His eyes lingered on the slice wound at my breast, the raw rope-burns around my wrists where the bindings had bit into the skin, my swollen right eye, and my bleeding palms.

  “I’m fine,” I whispered, stepping closer to him.

  He must’ve agreed — not even a second later he was there, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I felt the breath slip from my lungs. His lips pressed against my temple and my head was crushed against his chest, his labored breathing and racing heartbeat pounding beneath my ear.

  “Son!” Andrew called again, drawing our attention back. His face was white with the strain of holding on. “Sebastian! Please! Help me!

  “Bash, he’s your father,” I whispered. “He’s your family.”

  Sebastian turned his face to mine and met my eyes, his expression serious. “No, he’s not. You’re my family.”

  He grabbed my hand and walked away, his father’s screams ringing out in the air behind us. Bash didn’t once look back as we made our way to the gangplank and back down onto solid ground.

  ***

  As much as I might’ve wished it, the honorable Senator Andrew Covington didn’t die that day.

  But he’d certainly never serve another term in office.

  What I hadn’t realized, in the chaos of my time on the freighter, was that the men’s voices I’d heard yelling just before I sent my second flare round into the sky were not members of the crew coming after me. It was Conor and his men — a group of highly trained, covert SWAT team members — coming aboard the ship and systematically wiping out the thugs on board.

  As soon as Bash and I disembarked, Conor began firing questions at me.

  Who had taken me?

  Had I met the Boss?

  How many men were on board?

  I launched into a quick summary of my abduction and my time on the ship. When I described the hold on the bridge where they’d likely find Judith and Smash-Nose, both Bash and Conor looked at me with stunned expressions.

  “Judith Covington?” Conor asked, his eyes wide.

  “My mother?” Bash’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “She’s the ringleader. But that’s not important right now. Listen to me — there’s a container, in the middle of the cargo deck. It’s red, and its door should be slightly ajar.” My tone was near-frantic as I stared into Conor’s eyes. “There are girls in there, Conor. They’re sick and they’re scared. They need medical attention. And I didn’t get to search the whole ship – there might be more of them in another container.”

  Without another word, Conor nodded and raced away.

  For the next hour, Bash and I stood on the dock with our eyes trained on the freighter, as twenty men in black fatigues and bullet proof vests ran along the upper deck and across the bridge. Their sleek black guns gleamed darkly in their hands. I told Bash more details about my ordeal, shivering as a frigid wind blew off the ocean, and he slipped his suit jacket around my shoulders to ward off the chill. He took the news of his mother’s involvement in stride — aside from a few questions about what she’d said to me, he seemed more concerned with making sure I was all right.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I whispered, leaning into his sturdy frame as the first wave of exhaustion hit me. Now that the rush of adrenaline was wearing off, my wounds were beginning to ache and I felt nearly dizzy with fatigue.

  “When you didn’t come back from the bathroom with Simon and Fae, we all knew immediately that something was wrong. We went to the curb and found Agent Greene — the man Conor assigned to watch you for the night — barking into his phone. He said he’d seen you climb into an unmarked cab.”

  “Miri called — she was hurt, scared. I didn’t think.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was dialing Conor…”

  I felt Bash’s chest heave in a sigh. “I know. It’s lucky you were able to keep him on the line for a few minutes. He traced your cellphone signal to the Brooklyn Bridge — that’s where it went dead.”

  “They tossed it out the window, into the water,” I guessed.

  “Probably.” Bash nodded. “By that point, I’d gotten Agent Greene to bring me along as he rode to meet Conor—”

  “How’d you manage that?” I tilted my face to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

  Bash shrugged. “I was persuasive.”

  “Meaning you screamed a lot and threatened his life?” I asked.

  He cracked a small smile. “Agent Greene and I rode to meet Conor. He was trying to trace the signal from the bracelet he gave you, but the pings it transmits aren’t always precise. In the meantime, we drove to Red Hook and started searching the docks, but there was no sign of you anywhere. The brewery was abandoned. We got a lucky break when the Coast Guard got a message through to Conor.”

  My eyes widened.

  “Apparently, they received a radio distress call from an unknown vessel somewhere in the harbor.” Bash’s smile stretched wider. “A young woman named Lux Kincaid had requested aid. She said she’d been kidnapped and gave a location that, within minutes, gave authorities enough information to track down the unregistered freighter.”

  I laughed incredulously, tucking my face into the crook of Bash’s neck with a sigh.

  “It’s over,” I whispered. “I’m so glad it’s over.”

  “Me too, Freckles.” He kissed the top of my head.

  A commotion on the gangplank drew both of our gazes.

  “Get off me! You have no right to hold me!” Judith screeched, straining against the metal handcuffs on her wrists as two agents led her onto the docks. “You can’t do this! You have no evidence of my involvement.”

  “Actually, we have a witness who heard your full confession,” Conor informed her, trailing behind the restraining agents. He smiled broadly at me when his feet landed on the dock.

  Judith’s head swiveled in my direction and she opened her mouth to spit another string of venomous words. Her lips froze when her eyes locked on her son, whose arms were still wrapped tight around my frame.

  “Sebastian,” she whispered. “Don’t let them do this to me! You know I’m innocent.”

  Bash dropped his arms and stepped around me, walking in his mother’s direction with measured strides. When he reached her, he leaned down and spoke in a voice that held no traces of love or familial loyalty.

  “You did this to yourself.” His tone was as cold as his words. “You’re not innocent — you haven’t been innocent a day in your life.”

  “I’m your mother!” she protested.

  “Not anymore.” Bash lifted his head and looked at Conor. “Take her away. I don’t want Lux to have to look at her for another second.”

  Judith’s face went pale and her arms went limp as Bash turned his back on her and walked to my side. She didn’t fight the agents as they led her to a black sedan parked nearby and locked her inside.

  A parade of nearly a dozen criminals soon followed, as each of her thugs was led from the ship, loaded into a waiting van, and chained to the benches inside. Smash-Nose was one of the last to emerge from the ship, his bloodied nose still seeping and his cold
eyes narrowed on me with hatred.

  “Bitch,” he hissed as he was led past.

  The agent restraining him yanked harshly on his handcuffs, and Smash-Nose fell to his knees several feet from me. “You say something, Miller?” the agent hissed.

  Smash-Nose whimpered and shook his head, his eyes averted from me.

  “Good.” The agent pulled his prisoner to his feet and shoved him into the waiting van.

  Andrew was the last off the ship — brooding in silence as he walked past, too proud to even look in our direction. That was more than fine with me; I had no desire to listen to more of his angry ramblings or promises of revenge. And, anyway, there were much more important things to focus my attention on at the moment.

  Like Miri, who was rushing down the gangplank as fast as her legs could carry her.

  She hit the docks and flew in my direction — all I could do was open my arms, stand still, and brace for impact.

  Her arms wrapped tightly around my midsection and I could feel her labored breathing against my collarbone. The comforting weight of Sebastian’s hand landed on my shoulder and I squeezed Miri tighter, my eyes locked on the gangplank over her head. They filled slowly with tears as I watched the procession of girls.

  Each supported or carried by an agent, the girls were ushered off the ship and into the arms of waiting paramedics. I held my breath when Vera finally appeared, lying limp in Conor’s arms. When he lowered her onto a stretcher, Miri and I rushed to her side.

  “Vera,” Miri breathed, leaning close to her cousin. “Can you hear me?”

  The injured girl was still and silent, lying unresponsive on the cold stretcher. Tears tracked down my cheeks as I reached out to gently cup the non-battered side of her face. I bent forward, so my lips touched her ear, and saw my tears fall like raindrops onto her dirty hair.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I have to tell you how sorry I am,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Vera. I’m so sorry.”