A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  She grabbed his clammy hand. “On one. Two. Three.”

  She yanked Finn to his feet. He was heavy, but she was strong. She pulled him down the last two stairs and around the corner of the landing. Several bottles crashed to the ground simultaneously. She caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye and ran faster.

  Move! She dashed down the next several sets of stairs, nearly stumbling, her heels hitting hard and awkward. At the landing to Deck Eight, the ship pitched, and her ankle twisted. Pain shot up her leg. Finn toppled into her, almost knocking her over.

  “Sorry, Gwyneth.”

  She leaned against the wall, straining to hear over her own ragged breath. Nothing but distant thunder from the storm. They weren't being followed.

  “Are we safe?”

  “I think so. For the moment.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing herself to calm down and think. “Are you okay?”

  Finn leaned against the wall, his head back, his eyes closed. He pressed both his hands against his chest. “I'm about to puke violently, Gwyneth. And you?”

  At least he was breathing. And had his sense of humor back. “The same. And it's Willow.”

  “Huh?”

  If they were going to die here, at least she wanted him to know her real name, her real self. “I lied to you, before. It was stupid. My name is Willow.”

  He stared at her.

  She bent down and unstrapped her useless heels. She should've tossed them from the beginning. Panic had muddled her mind. She rubbed her fresh blisters. “And I'm not rich. My mom won our tickets. And since I'm being brutally honest, this isn't my dress. I don't even like it. Also, I absolutely despise these shoes.”

  He breathed deeply for a minute, then managed a crooked grin and thrust out his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Willow.”

  “You don’t hate me?”

  “How can I be mad at the girl who just saved my ass?”

  She shook his hand, surprised at the relief flooding through her. “Those maniacs upstairs might come down any second. We've got to go.”

  They hurried down the next two flights. Gunfire blasted on Deck Nine and Deck Eight, the terrifying sounds of screaming, shouting, and breaking glass following them down the stairwell. The hairs on Willow’s arms and neck prickled. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Finn stopped at the landing to Deck Six. “This is me.”

  They crept out of the mid-deck stairwell and into the elevator foyer. To their left was the boardwalk with the Xtreme Worlds virtual reality center and the handmade sweets shop with lollipops larger than Benjie’s head. To the right, designer shops, a sports bar, and the Trident Theater at the end.

  Before they could move, the elevator across from them dinged. The doors opened and a half dozen terrorists poured out. “You! Stop!”

  Willow lunged for the stairs, launching herself off the landing and taking them two and three at a time. Behind her, the sounds of shouting. Gun shots. Finn pounding down the stairs behind her. Her heart pummeled her chest, her breath tearing from her lungs in ragged gasps. Her leg jolted with pain, but she managed to stay on her feet.

  She rounded the corner of Deck Four. Empty open space, the casino directly ahead, the bulbs of the huge Galaxy Lounge sign blinking beyond it. Maybe there was somewhere to hide. Another burst of gunfire above her. She ducked out of the stairwell.

  She slowed, turning to Finn. But Finn wasn’t there.

  Something sharp jabbed into her back.

  “Move, girl.” A guttural voice spoke from behind her. “In there.”

  Her knees locked. Cold sweat broke out on every inch of her skin. The pounding steps behind her hadn’t been Finn. Finn was still up there, with the gunshots and the shouting.

  The sharp thing—a gun barrel—prodded her again.

  “Move. Or die.” Her attacker spoke the words with such calm indifference that Willow didn't doubt whether he cared either way. He'd shoot her in a hot second.

  She moved.

  24

  Amelia

  Amelia and Gabriel kissed again. She was dizzy and lightheaded, and her stomach fluttered with a thousand whispery wings. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

  “Wow,” she said when she finally pulled away to take a breath.

  “I thought the same thing.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, sending sparks shooting through her entire body. “And here I was afraid you hated me.”

  She laughed. “It's hard to explain.” And it was. She wasn't sure she had the words for what it was like when people changed around you, acted differently because of how you looked or who your father was. Gabriel didn't act like she was anything special. And for some reason, she liked that.

  They kissed again.

  Thunder crashed. The wind whipped around them. The rain started, splatting against the deck in fat droplets. Goosebumps pimpled her skin. She shivered.

  He pulled away. “It's cold. And you're freezing. Let me take you to the place I was telling you about. Something even the CEO's daughter hasn't seen.”

  She felt loose, calm, happy even—happier than she'd been in a long time. “Okay, big shot. Show me.”

  He stood and hooked his walkie-talkie to his belt. She took her clutch with the two remaining auto-injectors, and they went back inside, Gabriel's arm draped protectively across her shoulders.

  He took her back through the narrow crew passageways, down several flights of rickety metal stairs and past the crew and staff mess and rec areas. They didn't see a single person. “This is the crew entrance, since the main entrances are currently blocked by construction equipment. Close your eyes.”

  Her stomach tightened, but she closed her eyes and allowed him to lead her. The air changed, grew colder. She sensed space on either side and above her. Gabriel guided her up two steps.

  “Stay here, but don't look. I'll be right back.”

  Curiosity plucked at her, but she obeyed, rubbing her charm bracelet as she waited.

  A minute later, his footsteps returned. He took her hand. Sparks shot through her. His fingers were warm, strong, and calloused. She wasn't used to touching such rough skin. It wasn't a bad thing, no matter what her father said. “Can I look?”

  “Open your eyes.”

  She gasped. She stood on a small carpeted platform in front of several massive underwater viewing windows built into the ship's hull. The water on the other side of the windows was black and seething. The rest of the room was a theater with seating for at least five hundred people.

  “Look up.”

  The domed ceiling twinkled with a soft blue glow. Beautiful lifelike holographic creatures swam through the air above them—thousands of fish in various colors and sizes, different species of sharks, whales, and dolphins. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and looking up, up, up through leagues of water brimming with sea life.

  “The owner of the Grand Voyager, Kevin Murdock, planned this for years. He modeled it after a planetarium, but he calls it the Oceanarium. It'll be ready for its grand opening in a few months. For now, it's empty until the painter returns to finish the murals.” He patted the ladder behind him, a paint-splattered can on the bottom step. Behind the seating area, the walls were surrounded by ladders, canvas tarps, boxes, and tools.

  A sea turtle drifted by a few feet in front of her, flapping his flippers lazily. The outline of his body glowed a faint electric-blue. “This is spectacular,” she breathed.

  “Watch this.” He reached toward a school of angel fish. The holographic creatures sensed his hand and darted away in a flash of glittering scales.

  Amelia grinned like a little girl. She followed Gabriel's lead and waved at a Bottlenose dolphin gliding toward her. The dolphin waved its flipper. She laughed.

  “You can feel them, too. The projections use plasma. The haptics mimic the sensation of touch.”

  She watched two manta rays sail through the air. “Do they respond to music?”

  He grinned. �
�They do. I’ll bring you back here later, and you can play. We’ll see which music they like better—classical or good ole rock ‘n’ roll.”

  She couldn’t keep a matching grin off her face. She would absolutely love that.

  And then Gabriel was beside her again, his hands in her hair. He tilted her head toward him and kissed her. For one wonderful moment, she forgot how she was supposed to act and just let herself be. She let herself feel everything—his fingers brushing the curve of her ear, the fizzing in her belly, the rush filling her entire body.

  His eyes were dark and fathomless as he gazed into her own. Like he really saw her.

  Something crashed somewhere above them. “What's that?” she asked against his lips.

  “Just thunder.” He kissed her deeper, harder. She felt like her feet might leave the floor. She could float like the incandescent sea creatures swirling around them, blue and sparkling.

  The sound came again. Booming, different than thunder. Amelia forced herself to break the kiss. “That was weird.”

  Thunder rumbled.

  “Just the storm.” He bent toward her, digging his hands into her hair.

  She pulled away. “No, it was—”

  A low rat-a-tat sound. Like firecrackers. She swallowed. “Maybe we should go.”

  “Nonsense. Everything's fine.”

  But the moment was broken, the anxiety of the real world creeping back in. The sound came again from somewhere above them, somewhere on the ship. She wiped her palms on her dress. “If everybody else is at their muster station, and I'm not there, my mom will flip out. Like, literally. I should find her and let her know I'm okay.”

  “I really think you should stay.”

  “I'll come back.” She moved toward the edge of the platform. “Or I can give you my number and we'll message a time. We can meet back here—”

  “Amelia.”

  The way he said her name made her stop. A chill zipped up her spine. She turned around.

  He faced her, his shape framed against the black water in the viewing window behind him. His jaw was set, his face rigid, all the softness gone. Her gaze lowered, slowly focusing on the object in his hand.

  He held a gun. He pointed it at her.

  Everything went dark and pulsing. She blinked, trying to erase the image in front of her. But it refused to disappear. Her heart wormed its way into her throat. “What—what are you doing?”

  “I'm sorry, Amelia. But I can't let you leave.”

  Her gaze slid across his face, unable to gain traction. His expression was closed, unreadable. He looked like a stranger, like someone she'd never seen before, let alone kissed. “Why not?”

  “There's something happening, something bigger than both of us. You're going to have to trust me.”

  Panic bloomed in her chest. She could feel her frantic heartbeat in her teeth. “Are you—are you kidnapping me?”

  He laughed, but the sound was cold and hard, an imitation of a laugh. The gun didn't move, the barrel still trained on her. “Keeping you out of harm's way is more like it. But we may need you to do a few things for us.”

  She thought of her mother, her brother. “What harm? Who are you?”

  “I am the New Patriots.”

  “What?”

  “As of now, we are taking back our country from the greedy and the corrupt.”

  Understanding dawned slow and ugly. The New Patriots. She'd seen them in the news. The ones always marching and ranting. The ones suspected of the local council building bombing last year. “You're . . . a terrorist?”

  No!” he almost shouted. “I am a Freedom fighter. Like the Sons of Liberty when this country fought for its freedom and prevailed. We'll do it again.”

  She stared at him, barely able to hear his words. The wind was in her head, a great whooshing sound drowning everything out.

  “Now sit down.”

  She sat. Shock and terror locked her limbs. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could hardly breathe. She'd been manipulated and trapped, as easily as capturing a firefly in a jar.

  Her fear came down over everything, snapping shut like a lid.

  She'd been used. Again.

  25

  Micah

  The air in the galley was hot and stifling. Micah stirred the soup for what seemed like hours. The armed men swung their rifles, alternatively pointing and shouting. Some spoke perfect English. Some didn't speak English at all. Who were these people? And what did they want, other than death and destruction?

  “I need him,” Chef Jokumsen said in his Danish accent, gesturing at Micah. He was at the long food prep table with a handful of waiters and galley staff, assembling dozens of turkey sandwiches for the terrorists.

  “What did you say?” Kane demanded, a menacing gleam in his eyes. He was leaning over Su Su, a Burmese girl flipping buffalo burgers at the grill a few feet away from Micah. She was one of the newest galley assistants.

  “You want food?” Chef Jokumsen barked. “I need more hands. And I need her, too. The burgers are ready.”

  Kane's gaze slid up and down Su Su's trembling body. “They don't look ready.”

  “You want to eat today?” the head chef snapped. He didn't sound afraid at all. He sounded furious.

  Kane nodded grudgingly. He bent and sniffed Su Su's hair. “Go. For now.”

  “Boy, turn up the soup before you come over,” Chef Jokumsen ordered.

  Micah turned the heat to the highest setting. He helped Su Su finish her task. Kane was so close, Micah could feel his breath on his own neck. Su Su scooped the burgers onto a platter, her hands shaking so badly, she dropped a burger on the floor.

  “Pick that up nice and slow,” Kane drawled, winking at Micah.

  Su Su obeyed, then scurried to the prep table with the burgers. Micah followed behind her. He bit the inside of his cheeks, imagining smashing Kane's blinding white teeth in with a frying pan.

  He stood on the other side of the prep table, opposite the head chef. The terrorists leaned against the wall of stoves, watching them. Kane grinned maliciously, his beady eyes lasered on Su Su.

  “Slice these onions,” Chef Jokumsen said, shoving a cutting board, a bowl of onions, and a gleaming butcher knife at them.

  Su Su held the knife over the cutting board, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  “It'll be okay.” Micah wanted to reach out and comfort her, but touching her now seemed like the wrong move. He grabbed a knife and chopped an onion clean in two, slamming the blade with the force of his anger and fear.

  “Save your energy, boy,” Chef Jokumsen said under his breath. “Your brother is security, yes?”

  “Yes,” Micah said, barely trusting his own voice.

  “Do you know how to use a weapon?”

  “Enough,” he lied. He knew nothing about knives or guns or fighting. He hadn't needed to. Gabriel always protected him.

  “These other cooks can only braise lamb. They don't know crap.” Chef Jokemsen slapped finely sliced turkey between two slabs of pumpernickel bread. “There's a Geronimo button, to send a mayday signal, in the captain’s quarters. The lifeboats have satellite beacons. Remember your emergency training.”

  “How am I supposed to get there?”

  “That's your problem. I get you out of here, then you're on your own. You can go around the fresh foods side, to the elevator. Nobody's over there. I checked a few minutes ago. The guards supposedly guarding the elevator are in the pastries section, gorging themselves on Devil's Food cake. I create the distraction, you go. No hesitation. Yes?”

  Fear raised every sense to high alert. Micah slipped a small knife in his pants pocket. Hopefully, he wouldn't accidentally stab himself when he ran.

  “Come with me,” he said to Su Su.

  But she just stared at him with wild, frightened eyes.

  “No good,” Chef Jokumsen murmured. “I'll watch her. You go now.”

  Micah nodded.

  “Sirs!” Chef Jokumsen hollered. “The soup behind you
is overflowing. If it touches your skin, I'm afraid it will burn.”

  Both guards turned toward the unsupervised soup spilling over the sides of the pot in a boiling hiss of steam.

  Micah whispered a prayer under his breath. He ran. A crash sounded behind him as he dashed around the corner of the wall of ovens. “I'm so sorry, sirs. I'm clumsy today! I've no idea why.”

  He ran through the fresh foods section, the prep tables spread with onions, olives, and dozens of heads of lettuce. He hit the elevator button, his heart slamming. The seconds it took to open felt like an eternity. Chef Jokumsen bellowed something, arguing with one of the other chefs about nothing, creating more noise to mask Micah’s own.

  He scrambled into the service elevator and waited for it to lower to the provisions area. The elevator only traveled between the main provisions area and the galley, bypassing all of the passenger areas. Hopefully, the terrorists hadn’t made it down there yet. Either way, he had to take the risk.

  A voice that was not the cruise director came over the PA system: “All passengers and crew report to your emergency muster stations immediately.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and Micah rushed out. He passed two workers loading a pallet of orange juice containers. “Terrorists boarded the ship,” he said breathlessly. “Don't go to muster. It's a trap. Go to your cabins, lock and bar the doors with anything you can.”

  They stared at him, wide-eyed. “You're joking.”

  “I'm telling the truth.” Down here, with the loud engine drone, they hadn’t heard the suppressed gunshots or the screams. And he had no time to convince them.

  He raced through the provisions area to the crew quarters, quickly checking Gabriel's cabin, the mess hall, the crew lounge, and the bar. Nothing. Gabriel wasn't down here. Doubt crept in again and Micah shoved it out of his head. Simeon Pagnini was a terrorist. That didn’t mean Gabriel was. It didn’t mean his brother was involved. There had to be some explanation. Gabriel would explain it all, as soon as Micah found him.

  Think. Micah had to think. Where would Gabriel go? He was probably with a girl. Maybe Teresa, the girl he’d been seeing the last few weeks. Or maybe Amelia Black. She wasn’t in the dining room. If he was with a girl, he’d take her somewhere to impress her, to show off. Somewhere without people, because he'd want to make a move on her.