by Kyla Stone
The voices drew closer. She shrank against the wall. Two terrorists with their huge guns flanked a svelte silver-haired woman in a silk gown and a mink shrug.
They passed only a half-dozen feet away. Her heart punched into her throat. If the men looked to their left, they would see her through the fronds. Don't breathe.
The woman wept as she stumbled on the cobblestones in her four-inch heels. One of the men grabbed her elbow and yanked her up. The other man carried a half-full pillowcase bulging with jewelry.
“You don't have to do this,” the woman begged. “I can wire you any amount you want. Please, don't hurt us.”
The man with the pillowcase growled something in Tagalog. Willow didn't speak Tagalog at home, but her lola did sometimes. At home, the Filipino Channel was always on in the background. She recognized a few words. Shut your mouth, pig.
They marched past and disappeared into the shrubbery.
She let the air out of her lungs. The ship rolled and her stomach rolled with it, making her queasy. Thunder crashed overhead.
It was time to go. She should head back to the closest stairs. Her legs ached from crouching. She pushed herself to her feet. And froze. More sounds from the stairwell.
Her hiding spot was too flimsy to keep working. She'd gotten lucky last time. She had to move, and she had to move now. She edged around the planter and pushed herself off the wall. Using the path was a recipe for disaster, but she could go through the park itself. Most of the foliage would provide good cover.
She pushed through the café tables and chairs, careful not to bump into anything that might make a noise, and crept between a boxwood shaped like a giant brain coral and a laurel shrub formed into a purple fan. Mulch, twigs and fallen pine needles crunched beneath her bare feet. She inhaled the scent of flowers and holly, craning her ears to listen over the sounds of birdsong piped into the speakers.
She pushed aside two chest-high plants formed into orange pillars. A thorn snagged her dress and she yanked it free. The garden was bursting with color—yellow sea anemones and blue elkhorn, pink and green dragon-eyed something, and a host of others she couldn’t name.
For a second, she could almost forget. For half a second she could—pain shot through the center of her heart. She could never forget, would never forget, not for one moment, that her sister was gone, that she’d died a horrible death. Worse, she had died scared and alone. And it was Willow's fault.
Willow leaned against the trunk of a Japanese maple, red leaves like tiny hands fluttering all around her. A strangled sob escaped her lips. She slapped both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
She couldn't freak out. Not here. She couldn't even grieve. Not now. Not if she wanted to survive. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the pain back, shoving the grief and sorrow and despair into a tiny box in a corner of her soul.
When she opened her eyes, a bolt of lightning lit up the atrium. Three dark shapes moved amongst all the motionless ones. They were only a few dozen yards ahead of her, gliding along the path like silent shadows.
A crash of thunder. Above the birdsong chirping in the branch next to her, she heard other sounds. Footsteps and voices. Behind her.
She froze, her heart a pellet of ice.
She was trapped.
35
Gabriel
“We haven't known each other that long,” Amelia said haltingly. “But I felt something.”
Gabriel stared at her. The blue glow from the holographs glimmered across her face. She was so breathtakingly beautiful. A tiny chasm opened inside his heart.
“I felt something,” she said again, louder. “You think you can judge me, but you can't. I don't have the time or the—I don't have close relationships. The girls my age are all daughters of politicians or CEOs or celebrities. They want to get close to my father's power. Or they want to be written up in the latest celebrity gossip vlog, pictures of themselves with their arms slung around me plastered all over the internet.”
“Cry me a river.”
“I know. I know, okay? That's nothing compared to actual suffering. But—what I'm trying to say is, before you, I've never—” She cleared her throat, a blush spreading from her neck. “We're so different. But I saw something, something in your eyes. I can be myself around you. You aren't impressed by my father's influence and power, my wealth and status.”
He snorted.
“See? That's what everyone else wants. With you, they're barriers. I've never met anyone else like that before.”
“You're socializing in the wrong circles.”
“Yeah, I'm starting to get that.”
He almost smiled. “You'd be surprised by how human we can be.”
She met his gaze, steady and unblinking. “I was surprised. I admit it. You surprised me.”
A shard of guilt punctured his lungs. He looked down at the weapon in his hands.
“What I felt was real.” Her voice cracked. He glanced at her. Her face looked crumpled, like she was fighting back tears. “It kills me to say this—to admit it. But I felt it. And I know you did, too.”
The ship pitched. Nausea swirled in his stomach. He hardened his voice. “It was an act. I already told you.”
“Is it so hard to admit?” A phantom of a smile crossed her lips, her chin quivering.
She was the daughter of Declan Black, billionaire CEO, the man who kept the BioGen Cure from every person not born with a silver spoon in their mouth, including Gabriel’s mom. He watched his mom die because of her father. This girl was the enemy.
Then why did it feel like his heart was going to split open?
“It's always hard to be vulnerable,” she said. “No matter who we are or where we come from.”
“There's no room for vulnerable where I come from.”
“I don't believe that. You love your brother. I saw it clear as day.”
He didn't answer her. Too many tangled emotions snarled in his gut. Too many things he didn't want to feel, wasn't supposed to feel. Couldn’t feel. The memory of their kiss flushed through him—the soft, open expression on her face, so different from the cool reserve she showed the rest of the world.
She was getting under his skin. And he hated it.
He leapt to his feet. “I'm getting a drink.”
He slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked up the darkened center aisle to the stack of water bottles against the back wall. His walkie-talkie spat static, and Simeon’s voice came on the line. “Gabriel.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m checking in. The muster stations are quiet. There haven’t been any major attempts to escape. We’re headed to our extraction point. Everything is on target, except for Black. He’s quite . . . difficult. How is the girl?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Be ready to bring her to the bridge.”
Gabriel glanced toward the front of the Oceanarium. Amelia stared back at him. His heartbeat stuttered. “Simeon—”
“What?”
But he couldn’t ask the question. “I’ll be ready.”
He clipped the walkie-talkie and pulled two water bottles out of the box. He returned to the dais, knelt, and offered her a drink.
“Can I ask you a favor?” she asked. “The bindings on my wrists. They're so tight, I can't feel my fingers. Nerve damage could affect my playing. Please.”
Her eyes filled with anxiety and fear. He'd seen her with her violin. He knew how much she loved it, how skilled she was. It wouldn’t hurt anything to free her for a few minutes.
He pulled a Swiss Army Knife and a new zip tie from his pocket. She bent forward, and he slid the knife between her hands and cut the strap.
“May I rub my fingers?”
He nodded.
She brought her hands in front of her and sucked in her breath. Her fingers were purplish and swollen. An ugly red mark encircled each wrist.
His mouth went dry. “I'm sorry.”
“See? You don't have hatred in you.”
> “Yes, I do.”
“How could you, when you show such kindness?”
His jaw clenched. “I have both hatred and love in me. That's what we get wrong. We think it's one or the other, but it isn't. And love and hate don’t really have much to do with justice, do they?”
“We still have our feelings. What about yours?” Her gaze pinned him. “Do you hate me?”
“No.” He answered honestly. He couldn't help himself. He was supposed to hate her. Everything in him wanted to, needed to—but he couldn’t. He looked into her eyes and saw sadness and fear, but below that, strength. And courage. “I thought I did, at first. But I don't.”
“Then choose something else,” she whispered. “Choose love.”
“It's not that easy.” Shame and remorse skewered him. His heart felt ripped into pieces. Everything inside him was sharp and jagged, like broken glass. “This is bigger than me. I can't choose my own selfish desires when people are starving and sick and dying. That’s not justice. I must be willing to sacrifice.”
She rubbed her swollen fingers. “Maybe you're sacrificing the wrong things.”
He couldn't help it. He reached for her hand.
She looked up at him. Their faces were inches apart. He counted every pale eyelash, traced the faintest spray of pimples along her hairline. He saw everything in the deep wells of her eyes—his own pain and turmoil reflected back at him.
She interlocked her fingers with his. “Gabriel.”
He should pull his hand away. He should tie her up. He should get as far away from this girl as he could. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. She had a warmth to her, a glow that lit her up from the inside. He could feel it like heat, just being near her. He wanted to be near her.
Amelia leaned forward. Her breathe quickened, so close he felt it on his cheek.
Her lips grazed his. His blood buzzed at her touch, his skin hot and tingling.
He felt every beat of his heart.
She kissed him. She kissed him hard and deep. He opened his mouth, letting her kiss him, letting her in.
She buried her fingers in his hair and drew him to her. Dark and fierce emotions burst inside him. He groaned. Everything rose to the surface at once, all the things he hadn't allowed himself to feel—his doubt, his fear, his overwhelming loneliness.
He kissed her back. Heaven help him, he was kissing her back. He dropped the pocket knife and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She stroked his scalp, her hands on either side of his head.
He kissed her, hard and urgent and desperate, filled with a longing he couldn’t name. For this moment, here with her, the darkness within him receded like a great black wave.
He took in the warmth of her, the nearness of her, the scent of her like lilacs in an open field. She felt safe. She felt like coming home.
She pulled away. He opened his eyes and took a ragged breath.
She placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. Her gaze bored into him with her intense, ice-blue eyes. “This is real. Do you feel it now?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, his throat raw.
“And I'm real. I'm a real person. I feel fear and pain and love, just like you.”
“I know.” He reached for her again, but she slid off his lap.
“I'm not bad. I've made mistakes, but I'm not evil. Being born into a rich family doesn't make me a bad person. Being poor doesn't make you bad. It’s our actions that count. Our—our choices.”
“Come here.”
She came back to him. He wrapped his arms around her, sinking into her softness, her warmth. His skin was on fire. His bones were melting.
She kissed him again, long and slow.
He felt the blade. Cold and razor-sharp.
Amelia pressed the knife against his Adam's apple.
Stupid! How could he be so stupid! Rage crackled through him. Sparks flew behind his eyes, red against black canvas. He should've known she was just like the rest of them. “How could you—!”
“I talk,” she said. “You listen.”
All the time he thought he was manipulating her, but she'd used him and manipulated him right back. And now he'd screwed up so badly, Simeon would never forgive him. He’d betrayed the cause. Betrayed his own heart. He’d die a coward, a traitor, his life utterly meaningless.
“Are you listening?”
He clenched his fists, furious at her, furious at himself. But she had him.
He was helpless.
“I could kill you right now,” she said. “And maybe I'd run out of here and some other terrorist will shoot me or torture me or—it doesn't matter. But whatever happens next, I know what I should do. I'm supposed to kill you.”
A sharp bitterness welled on his tongue. “Just do it.”
She pressed the blade deeper.
36
Willow
Willow was trapped.
Three figures advanced down the path toward her. At least two were headed her way from behind.
The Japanese maple wouldn't provide enough coverage. She was exposed.
A bridge. Ten feet directly ahead. It was the closest thing. The only thing. She dropped on all fours and crept toward it, hoping the storm and the ambient noise would hide her movements. She shoved through several manicured bushes she didn't know the names of, thorns and sharp twigs poking her face, scratching her arms.
She broke through and slid down the pebbled bank into the water, careful to keep from splashing. The water was cold and deeper than she thought—up to her thighs if she was standing. She crouched low, the waterline at her neck, and swam beneath the bridge.
The bridge was arched and about six feet wide, the shadows beneath dark and heavy. As long as she hadn't been spotted slipping into the water, she should be—
She bumped into something. Something bumped back.
Willow stifled a screamed.
Something wet and warm gripped her arm. “Shhh!”
She blinked, her heart thumping, every nerve and cell in her body on high alert. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows.
The glimmer of a face, perfect and beautiful. Those fierce, copper curls. The girl who’d acted like a royal jerk the first day of the cruise. Celeste.
Willow blew out a breath.
Celeste dug her long fingernails into her forearm. The whites of her eyes were huge, her face clenched in terror. She raised one finger to her lips.
Willow nodded. Both girls lifted their heads toward the bridge above them and listened.
Heavy footsteps clomped over the bridge. And voices, coming from both sides. “Status report.”
“Found about ten hiding out in the ice rink. They had a few fire axes and one had a gun. We lost Cruz and Sampson. Took 'em all out, though.”
“Keep going. I want every corner of this ship cleared. No more surprises.”
“Got it.”
Someone mumbled something in Spanish.
“Make that asshole speak English, damn it. This is America.”
“Technically, we're in international waters and—”
“What did you just say to me?”
“Nothing.”
The first man laughed, low and full of menace. “Think you're special, do you?”
“No, sir.”
There was a long, dangerous silence. Willow and Celeste stared at each other, unable to look away. What if they started shooting? What if some of the bullets punched right through this flimsy wooden bridge? At every what if, her heart thundered louder, banging wildly against her ribs. Surely they would hear it. They would find them and then—
“Get out of here. If I have to see your face for one more second I'm liable to blow your head off, you stinking rat.”
Two sets of boots stomped off the bridge toward the aft of the ship.
“It's almost over,” a second voice said in a soothing tone. Female. An accent Willow couldn’t place. “They're gonna burn, too. Come on. We've got two more. Then the whole thing's ready to blow.”
&nbs
p; “First, I'm shootin' that little maggot myself.”
“I'm sure you will. Let's go. We've got a deadline to meet.”
The second group walked in the opposite direction, toward the stern.
Willow counted the seconds in her head. They waited a full minute before either of them dared to move or breathe.
Celeste started to cry, tears leaking down her cheeks. “I was with Kendyll in the casino. We heard the stupid muster call, but we were on a lucky slot machine and she was up fifteen hundred bucks. And now, now she's dead. They just stormed in, like this solid black wall . . . they killed so many people. Just—just shot them, like they were nothing.”
“I know.” Willow felt numb, like she was listening to a story. Her brain couldn't focus. It kept dragging her back to the conversation they'd overheard. She repeated the sentences over and over in her head.
“I ran—I just, what was I supposed to do?”
“I know. It's okay.”
“What do we do now?”
Willow lifted her wrist out of the water, exposing her wristband. “My first thought was to head to the crew quarters to hide out in a cabin until the Navy or whoever comes to rescue us. But I need to—”
“You can open the staterooms?”
“It's my mom's. She has access. But I’m not going—”
But Celeste was already moving away from her. They swam out from beneath the bridge, checked the area, and climbed out. Water dripped down Willow’s arms and legs. Her dress was drenched and stuck to her wet skin. She pulled at the fabric, rolled it into a ball, and squeezed.
Celeste stumbled on the path.
“Take off your shoes,” Willow said. “It's a miracle you haven't broken an ankle.”
Celeste scowled, but she obeyed. She tossed her heels into the stream, stiffening at the sound of the splash. But no one else was around to hear.
“What are you waiting for? Let's go.”
But Willow couldn't move. Her muscles refused to work. “Something's wrong.”
“Hello? That’s the understatement of the century.”
“Those pirates or terrorists or whatever they are. What they were saying—”