by Kyla Stone
“I have a knife in my pants pocket. If you scoot over, I think you can pull it out. You can cut the straps.”
Amelia lifted her head. “You want me to help you escape.”
“Both of us.”
“I heard him on the walkie-talkie,” she said. “Talking about me.”
“They want something from your father. Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“Gabriel isn’t a bad guy.” But suddenly he wasn't so sure. How could Gabriel stand by and watch people die? How could he possibly think killing civilians would solve the nation’s problems? A line from Heart of Darkness ran through Micah’s head: The mind of man is capable of anything. No. No matter how much darkness surrounded him, Gabriel wasn’t evil. Micah wouldn’t believe that. He couldn’t. Not about his brother. “These are bad people, but Gabriel—he wants to change the world. He's a true believer.”
“And this is how he does it?”
“I didn't say I agree with him. I don't. But he still has goodness in him.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” She took a deep breath. “How bad is it up there?”
“They stormed the ship and came barreling into the Oasis dining room. They had people on the inside. One of the waiters. Some security. My brother. Who knows how many others.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
He considered lying, softening the blow, but her gaze was searching, steady.
“I asked because I want to know.”
“They killed at least fifty people in Oasis. They took the captain's table hostage.”
Amelia swallowed. “And my brother?”
“I didn't see your brother. I'm sorry.”
She nodded to herself, as if deciding something. “Okay.”
“The knife. Can you reach it?”
“I'll try.” She wriggled closer, twisting her body at an awkward angle to grab the knife handle from his pocket. “Got it.”
The blade slid along his hip bone. The floor moved beneath them and the edge sliced through the thin fabric into his skin. He sucked in his breath.
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. Whatever you do, don't drop the knife.”
They scooted around until they were back to back. Amelia's fingers scrabbled over his hands and wrists, feeling for the strap.
“Don't cut my fingers off.”
“Not planning on it. But I can't exactly see what I'm doing.”
She sawed into the strap. The knife point jabbed into the tender flesh of his wrist. He bit the insides of his cheeks, wincing.
“Sorry, again.” She adjusted her body. “I'm not trying to hurt you.”
“I know.”
A metal door banged open to their left. Gabriel's voice echoed in the cavernous room.
“Faster.” He closed his eyes, tensing for the next cut.
Amelia made a desperate noise in the back of her throat. She pressed harder and faster, slicing the top of his thumb. Pain stabbed through him, warm liquid dripping down his palm. Finally, the strap broke and he was free.
Micah scrambled into a crouch. He untucked his shirt and wiped his throbbing, bloody hand. He peeked over the seats. Gabriel headed up the center aisle.
“He's coming! Hurry!” He gestured for her to follow him. He'd free her hands later.
But she didn't move.
“Let's go!”
She dropped the knife. “Even if I got away, he'd come after me. I'm his mission, remember? You're not. You go. Get help.”
He wanted to shout, I'm not leaving you! But he didn't. He recognized the truth of her words in the span it took her to speak them. “There is goodness in him. Help him find it.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide with fear.
“I'll come back for you, I promise.” He slipped the knife into his pocket and sprang to his feet.
He was halfway to the side entrance when Gabriel shouted. “Stop!”
Micah turned around, his hands in the air. Blood dripped down his arm. The stinging pain centered him, kept him focused. He took a step backward. Then another.
“I said stop!” Gabriel stood next to Amelia, legs splayed, gun pointed straight at him. “You aren't going anywhere.”
“You going to shoot me, too?” His voice shook. Gabriel wouldn't hurt him. Would never hurt him. And yet, thirty minutes ago, he'd believed Gabriel would never kill anyone, would never be a part of something like this. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. “Is that what your cause means to you?”
“You don't understand. I can keep you safe here.”
Micah took another step backward. The metal crash bar pressed into his back. He couldn’t choose safety, not at a time like this. His mother’s words echoed in his mind. Be good. Be brave. His heart was a ball of fire in his chest. “I'm going to help these people. Shoot me if you have to, but I'm going.”
“You don't know what you're doing!”
Micah stole one last glance at Amelia. Only the top of her head showed beyond the rows of stadium seats. Was he doing the right thing by letting her stay behind? It was more dangerous outside these doors. Gabriel made a bad choice, but he wasn't a killer. Micah had to believe that. “You can stop this, Gabriel.”
Micah turned and fled.
He half-expected a bullet in the back. But it never came.
His brother let him go.
28
Gabriel
Gabriel held the gun with slick, trembling hands, his finger on the trigger. His pulse thundered in his ears. Sweat trickled down his neck. He sighted his own brother's back as he walked away, up the aisle between the stadium seats of the Oceanarium.
Micah's uniform shirt was untucked, hanging lopsided over his belt. Only Gabriel knew what lay beneath the shirt, the scars carved into Micah’s right shoulder blade from the hover boarding accident. His gun wavered.
The side door slammed with a finality that echoed in his ears. He lowered the gun. He couldn't do it. He could never hurt his brother. It was his weakness, just as Simeon had warned him.
The five hundred empty, plastic-sheathed seats stretched in front of him, judging him silently. Micah didn't understand. He would never understand why Gabriel and the New Patriots needed to act with violence. All other avenues had failed repeatedly, for years. It took strength to stand up. Courage to fight to change things. And an iron will.
Micah was soft. It was Gabriel's fault he was soft. He'd protected him, had kept him sweet, innocent, and loving. In the process, he'd failed his brother completely.
And now that same weakness permeated him. He’d let love cloud his judgement, allowed Micah to escape into the bowels of the ship. And Micah wouldn't just squirrel away and hide. He was soft, but he was no coward.
Gabriel’s chest tightened. Micah would do something stupid, and he would get himself killed. He might snarl up the whole mission. For half a second, he thought about chasing after him. Why had he gotten Micah on this ship in the first place? Because Simeon wanted him. Because Simeon believed Micah would join their cause. Only Gabriel had always known, deep down, that his brother was weak. He would never fight. He would never kill.
They're killing people. But there were always casualties in war, just like Simeon said. Gabriel had to be strong. He had to be willing to do whatever it took. Whatever the price. Just like he did when he protected Micah all those years ago. Just like he did when the New Patriots bombed the courthouse.
He clenched his jaw and turned toward his prisoner.
Amelia Black.
She sat on the floor, her beautiful dress rumpled and stained with red.
“Why are you bleeding?”
She stared up at him with those unnerving ice-blue eyes. “It's your brother's blood.”
His gut twisted. “Is he hurt? How bad?”
“You just had a gun pointed at him.”
“I'm aware of that. Why is he bleeding?”
“He had a knife. I cut him loose. But since I was tied up and couldn't exactly see what I was doing, I
accidentally cut him.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Dolphins, whales, and stingrays swam in the watery glow surrounding them. The ocean lashed against the viewing area windows. A tiny holographic fish darted in front of him and flashed away.
He stared at the ocean, his eyes dry and gritty. He'd been longing for this day for months. For years. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. A pain stabbing deep. Micah’s eyes, that horrified look of shock and betrayal.
“Why didn't you stop him?”
“I wouldn't shoot my own brother. I'm not a monster.” He shoved the pain, the anxiety, the questions—all of it—out of his mind. Pain was weakness. Emotion was weakness. He couldn't be weak. Not now. “Micah's nothing, anyway. He doesn't matter.”
“You could've run after him.”
“I couldn't leave you,” he said darkly. “Simeon made you my mission.”
She winced. Satisfaction flashed through him, then guilt. Everything that happened between them was simply that—a mission, a duty. He couldn’t acknowledge the feelings stirring in his gut. They weren’t real. What he’d felt when she fell—a stab of fear, concern, compassion—and then later, when she’d first smiled at him after her near-seizure, small and sad and completely vulnerable. It had undone him.
But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
He made his voice hard, indifferent. “Not that it wasn’t an enjoyable mission. It definitely had its perks.”
She lifted her chin. Not the reaction he expected. “You aren't the first person to use me. And you can be sure you won't be the last. Trust me, I'm used to the likes of you.”
“I doubt it.”
“You think you're different from them? Different from the power-hungry game players upstairs? You're playing your own game. And you use whoever you have to in the process.”
“I'm nothing like them,” he scoffed. “They're corrupt. Soulless. Evil.”
“Right. You're keeping me out of the way until your boss decides he needs me. For what? To get my father to spill whatever secrets you want? How do you think he's going to do that? He's going to—” She took a breath. “He's going to torture me.”
“No, he's not.” But doubt pricked his mind. They're killing people. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Simeon isn't like that. We aren't like that.”
“Then why are you down here babysitting me? What other possible end game is there? I'm leverage against my father. He's a hostage because they want something from him. When you drag me up to the bridge, they're going to put a gun to my head.”
“Maybe. But Simeon would never shoot you.”
“Would you?”
He wanted to say, Of course not. He had the sudden urge to lean in and wrap her in his arms, to kiss the fear off her face. What an idiotic thought. Furious at himself, he scrubbed it from his mind. The romance was manufactured, and the feelings with it. They'd dispensed with that pretense.
“You said this was a war,” she said.
“What of it?”
“All wars require collateral damage.”
Saliva filled his mouth, and he swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“So,” she said so softly he almost didn't hear her, “you'll kill innocent people.”
“I don't kill innocents.”
Her eyes flashed in the bluish light. “Who gets to decide who's innocent? You?”
“Do you know how many thousands—how many millions—have suffered needlessly? Died needlessly? All because of greed and corruption.”
“You didn't answer my question. Who gets to decide?”
Her questions irritated him in ways he couldn't explain. Simeon had said no one was innocent. Simeon said collateral damage was always the cost of revolution, of freedom. Gabriel believed that with all his heart. Didn’t he?
His mind felt muddled. He couldn't think clearly with her voice in his head. He needed to be clear. He needed to be smart. He was a soldier, a warrior.
The truth was, no one was innocent. Not even him.
29
Micah
The sound of breaking glass shattered Micah's concentration. He froze.
He was on his way to the starboard side of Deck Four to reach the lifeboats. He was nearly to the mid-ship stairwell on Deck Four, making his way past the Jazz Lounge, the comedy club, and the Blaze disco lounge. The eight-thousand square-foot Undersea Paradise Casino was directly in front of him.
More breaking glass. This time from behind him.
He rushed blindly into the casino. He raced past red velvet gaming tables featuring Blackjack, Caribbean Stud Poker, Baccarat, and Roulette. He stumbled over one of the tufted leather chairs, cursing silently as it crashed to the floor. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline spiking through his veins. He was a giant exposed target.
He eased around a giant spinning prize wheel and dove behind the first set of slot machines. Hundreds of the machines were bunched in groups of six or ten like a blinking, jangling maze.
Though the casino was empty, the slot machines still glowed, their panels lit up with rotating bars of cherries, dice, stars, and triple sevens. He leaned against one, the metal cooling his back, the holoscreen boasting, '3000 Chances to Win!' He strained to hear over the clanging, spinning sound effects and the frantic banging of his own heart.
Nothing. He crept deeper into the electronic jungle, scrambling from one bank of slot machines to the next. He stepped over several dead bodies, begging their forgiveness in his mind. An elderly woman in a beautiful scarlet gown was still crumpled on her stool, her glassy eyes staring at him, unseeing. He inched around the stool, careful not to disturb her body.
Voices: coming from the front of the casino.
His breath stilled in his chest.
He crouched beside the body, hunching himself into as small a form as possible. He gripped the knife in both hands. It wouldn't do much against a semi-automatic. It was all he had. But could he really attack another human being, even to defend himself?
His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. He didn’t want to die here, bleeding out like an animal. His mom had faced her death with courage. But he wasn’t as strong or brave as she was. His faith wasn’t as strong. He was afraid. Terrified. He wasn't ready. There were so many things he'd never done. He'd never even gotten a chance to live yet. He’d never fallen in love. He'd never even—
Movement on his left. Fear jolted through him. He whipped his head around.
One of the terrorists squatted in front of the bank of slot machines to his left. He was dressed in dark clothes with a Kevlar vest and a ski mask pulled over his face. He cradled an assault rifle in his arms.
Micah shrank against the stool, his back bumping the woman's still-warm body. Her body toppled from the stool and landed on the carpet with a dull thud. He flinched, fear throbbing through him.
The terrorist still hadn't moved. He was waiting for something.
“You heard that?” The guttural voice was closer now, maybe only a dozen yards away.
“Nah, man.”
“I swear I heard something.”
They were so close, Micah could hear their footsteps over the clattering, clanging slot machines.
The terrorist rose into a crouch, lifting his weapon.
Two men rounded the corner. They aimed their weapons at Micah, their eyes lit with blood lust. “So many rats on this ship,” the first man growled. He shoved his gun in Micah's face.
Terror roared in his ears. His veins were ice. He couldn't move now, even if he'd wanted to.
The gun shots blasted Micah's ear drums, vibrating through his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the explosion of pain. Waiting for death.
But it didn't come.
“Boy.”
He didn't breathe. He didn't think. He waited to die.
“You think this is a good time for a nap, boy?”
He forced himself to open his eyes. The two men who'd just had their guns trained on him were on the ground, blood staini
ng the carpet beneath them. The third terrorist was standing over him, his rifle aimed toward the floor.
“W-what?”
The man pulled up his ski mask.
His brown skin gleamed in the light, sweat beading his brow. He rubbed his square, clean-shaven jaw with the back of his hand. “Ed Jericho.”
Micah’s lungs deflated. He stared up in shock, not quite believing he was still alive. “Declan Black's security guy?”
“You got a name?” Jericho’s voice was deep, with the hint of a Nigerian accent.
“M-Micah.”
Two figures appeared behind Jericho. The first was an Indian man in his early forties dressed in the same stolen combat gear. He was one of the security officers who worked with Gabriel. His name was Raj Patel, and he was short, slim, and bearded. The second was a boy a few years younger than Micah, the dark-haired, sullen-faced son of the BioGen CEO. Silas Black.
Patel clapped him on the back. “Glad to see you, Rivera. Have you seen your brother?”
Micah bit the inside of his cheeks. He hated to lie, but he couldn’t reveal his brother’s location, no matter what he’d done. “Um, not lately, sir.”
“That's too bad. Hope he's kept himself alive.”
“Me too.”
Silas stared at him, a sour, suspicious expression on his face.
“Where is everyone else?” Micah asked.
Jericho shrugged off his backpack and pulled out a fresh magazine. “Silas and I were in the gaming center on Deck Six when we heard the terrorists sweeping the deck above us and found ourselves a place to hide. These assholes are schizophrenic. Some are taking hostages. Some are shooting anything that moves.
“As far as I can tell, there are fifty or sixty hostiles. They’ve got hostages in the Galaxy Lounge and the Trident Theater. Small groups are still sweeping the ship, but the concentration of hostiles are in those two places.”
“Declan Black is being held hostage on the bridge,” Micah said.
Jericho clenched his jaw. “I suspected as much.”
Micah caught a glimpse of a handgun, a couple of sheathed knives, and something metallic and disc-shaped before Jericho rezipped the pack. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or frightened.