by Kyla Stone
“How many innocent people have died?”
“Cheng is the one killing people. I had nothing to do with this, I swear to you. But Gabriel, none of them are innocent. None.”
Acid burned the back of his throat. He wanted to tell Simeon to go to hell, but the words wouldn’t come. Simeon was his mentor, his friend. Gabriel still feared disappointing him. “This—this isn't what I signed up for.”
“You aren't listening. Everything has changed. This epidemic is the worst we've ever seen. What's happening out there—what the virus does to people—”
The ship surged beneath Gabriel's feet. He stumbled, then righted himself, gripping the back of a stadium seat for balance. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Black has the vaccine. The true vaccine. Whatever issues your conscience is having, put them to rest. Right now.”
Gabriel felt dizzy, unstable, like more than the floor was tilting. The foundation of his life was shifting, breaking apart beneath his feet. “What's going on?”
“I'll explain later. But Gabriel, you are a Patriot. You have a duty to the people—your people. If we fail now, the death toll will be staggering.”
“But the girl. She's innocent.”
“We don't have time for this!” Simeon's voice rose sharply. “You know this. Every war has casualties! Every revolution is built on the deaths of innocents. This is the only way.”
His mouth felt like it was full of nails. He didn't speak. He couldn't.
“Are you going to throw away everything you believe in because of some rich bitch you’ve suddenly developed feelings for?”
He closed his eyes. He did have feelings for her. He’d fought against it as long as he could. But she’d gotten to him. Her dignity, her vulnerability, her honesty, her strange ability to be both weak and strong at the same time. How her skin crinkled around her eyes when she smiled a real smile that lit up her whole face. “She’s not a bitch.”
“Would you sacrifice your own life to save thousands—maybe millions of lives, Gabriel?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Sometimes it is not our own life we must sacrifice. Do you understand?”
His throat constricted. “I—”
“You have always been loyal,” Simeon said. “You’ve been my most faithful recruit. I believe in you. Since you were fourteen years old and you revealed your unflinching strength and courage against those bullies, I’ve believed in you. Don’t let me down now, son.”
“I won’t.” The but hung in the air between them.
Simeon sighed. “I give you my word, Gabriel. I will not harm her. But innocent lives are on the line. I need you to think of them.”
Gabriel let out his breath. His shoulders slumped. “I understand, sir.”
“We’re on the brink of a great victory, son. Bring her to the bridge.”
Gabriel clipped his walkie-talkie to his belt. He walked back to the platform on legs like concrete blocks. Everything he'd longed for, worked for, fought and bled for. A great victory for the New Patriots and the country. A great defeat against the greedy, corrupted elite. But at what cost?
She would never forgive him. For one stupid moment, he'd allowed himself to believe their little bubble would go on indefinitely, unburst by the outside world. But that was impossible.
It didn't matter how strong their feelings were for each other. It didn't even matter if they loved each other, or could love each other someday, if given the chance. They were on opposite sides in a hidden war waging for decades, for centuries.
If he didn't bring her to the bridge, it would be treason. Simeon and the New Patriots would disown him, or worse. They were his brothers. His family. Simeon, who was like a father to him, who'd taken him under his wing and trained him and given him his dignity, his life. Simeon gave him meaning after the meaningless death of his parents. Simeon gave him a purpose, a duty.
He could never betray Simeon. He could never betray the cause. It would be betraying himself.
Innocent people were dying. The stakes had just been raised exponentially. Whatever was happening on the mainland with the epidemic, Simeon believed Black had the true vaccine. He must be withholding it for his own kind. Gabriel could do something. Must do something. He must help save thousands, possibly millions of lives. This was what he'd longed for, worked for, fought for.
He closed his eyes against the dread coursing through him, the pain like a physical ache in his chest, burning the back of his throat. Simeon was right, as always. He must act. This was his duty. This was his chance to make a real and lasting difference for his people. His own happiness—his own peace—was inconsequential.
Gabriel clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. She would hate him. And he would deserve her hatred. After the risk she had taken for him, refusing to hurt him or escape when she had the chance. She would hate him and he would have to live with that.
He had argued for her life. It was all he could give her. It would have to be enough.
“Amelia.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. She gazed up at him, smiling, her face open and trusting.
It felt like boiling water pouring into his chest.
“Amelia. I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”
“The bridge.”
A gap opened in the startled silence.
He pulled his gun out of his holster. He couldn't let his guard down. Not again.
Her smile flickered. Her gaze shifted from his face to the gun hanging loose at his side, a terrible understanding dawning in her eyes.
He expected her to beg, to cry, to try to convince him to change his mind again. But she didn't. She just stared at him, aghast. “Why?”
“You know why.” His voice sounded hollow and distant in his own ears.
“I thought you were good.”
“I am good! But sometimes goodness demands sacrifice.”
“And I'm it? I'm your sacrifice?”
“This is so much bigger than you and me. That's what you'll never understand.”
“I could have killed you. But I didn't. I could have run. I didn't. I chose you.”
The words were barbed wire on his tongue. “You chose wrong.” He gestured with the gun. “Now move.”
A thousand emotions flitted across her face simultaneously. She raised her chin. “And if I don't?”
He hated every word he spoke. He hardened his voice, hardened his heart. “I’ll knock you unconscious with the butt of my gun and carry you there.”
She remained still.
“Move!”
“May I bring my clutch?” It was on the floor next to her feet.
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was cold, emotionless. The same as his own.
She picked up her clutch and rose to her feet. She walked in front of him, her back straight, her shoulders squared, her posture perfect. She looked regal, dignified as a queen.
He longed to say I'm sorry, a thousand times I'm sorry, but the words died in his throat.
40
Micah
Micah followed the group as Jericho edged toward a hallway on the right between the Champagne Bar and the OnAir Comedy Club. Jericho peered around the corner, then looked back at them, holding up one hand. They stopped.
Jericho motioned for Silas and Micah to stay back. Silas swung his rifle up, ready to shoot at anything that moved. Micah did the same. His heart jerked, bucking against his ribs.
Patel and Jericho slipped around the corner, silent as ghosts.
He went rigid, not daring to breathe. The hairs prickled on his neck, his arms. Even sullen, unflappable Silas looked anxious.
A minute passed, each second ticking in his brain. Patel appeared and gestured for them to follow him into the hallway. The space was at least twenty feet by twenty feet. Bathrooms on one side, elevators on the other. The closed doors to the deck were directly in front of them, the storm lashing the glass.
“You used a garrote,” Silas said, awe in his voice.
“Where silence is necessary, it is an excellent weapon.” Jericho wiped off the wire and stuffed it in his backpack. “Albeit messy.”
“You need to teach me that,” Silas said.
“You know how to shoot a gun. That's plenty.”
Acid rose in Micah's throat and he retched, barely avoiding spraying chunks all over his own gun. He was with the good guys. Yet violence was everywhere. Jericho cleaned fresh, hot blood off his arms like it was nothing, like that blood hadn’t been inside a living man not sixty seconds ago. Both Jericho and Silas spoke of the murder like they were discussing which steak to order for dinner.
Micah looked down at the bodies again, bile churning in his gut. It could have been Gabriel lying there, killed without mercy or a second of remorse.
He whispered a quick prayer over their bodies. His mom would want him to. Even the wicked deserved someone to mark their passing.
Patel retrieved both terrorists' walkie-talkies and clipped them to his belt. “We may only have a few minutes before they're supposed to check in. And who knows if we triggered any cameras.”
Jericho cracked his knuckles and went to the glass doors. “They're guarding the lifeboats from the inside because of the storm. We got lucky with these guys. They were both half-drunk. Also to our benefit: from inside, the view is limited. I can only see the next lifeboat from here. Normally I'd want to take out the next few sets of guards, but we don't have time.”
“Because of the bridge,” Silas said.
Jericho nodded. “They'll track us the second we open these doors and go for the lifeboats. I didn't notice any cameras in this alcove, but you never know. Hostiles could be on the starboard wing, waiting for us. Up there, they've got the high ground.”
“Great.” Micah moved toward the doors. “Let's go.”
Silas followed him.
“Hold up, Silas,” Jericho said. “My job is to keep you alive.”
Silas's face contorted. “You're the one who taught me to shoot. You know I can handle myself.”
“I can't let you go out there.”
“So you're making me stay behind like a pansy? You've got to be joking. I can do anything this asshat can.”
Jericho gripped his shoulder. “I've no doubt. But I need you to provide cover. You're a good shot.”
“That's a load of bullsh—”
“I'm expendable.” Micah struggled to keep his voice even. “That's why I need to go.” For half a second, shame flushed through him, then a flash of Gabriel’s anger. Micah wasn’t rich. Micah wasn’t powerful or important in any way. He was just a poor, overworked Puerto Rican waiter on a cruise ship. About as expendable as one could get, if you valued life based on wealth and prestige. If the money in your bank account made you somehow worthier.
Silas's gaze flashed to Jericho. Jericho nodded grimly.
Micah handed his weapon to Patel. Already, he felt naked without it. Exposed. He'd be even more exposed out on the deck. But if they didn't send out a distress signal, no one would know where they were. No one would rescue them.
Expendable or not, he had to do this. Expendable or not, he could still be brave. He decided who he was, not these people. If he had to die here, he could at least make sure it meant something. “Cowards die many times before their deaths,” he whispered. “The valiant never taste death but once.”
“What?” Silas squinted at him.
“Shakespeare.” Jericho tapped the side of his head. “Reading sharpens the mind. You ready?”
Micah nodded. He said a quick prayer in his mind, opened the doors, and stepped through.
The wind buffeted him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Rain pummeled his head and face, blurring his glasses and drenching him instantly. Above him, the storm roared. A dozen bolts of lightning shattered the sky simultaneously.
He'd witnessed dozens of scorchers like this—intense, destructive lightning storms—but always safely inside a building. Never outside, unprotected, suspended above a pitching, boiling sea. The ferocious power of it was astonishing. He could feel it thrumming inside his own chest, vibrating in his bones, his teeth. For a second, he was frozen, both in fear and awe.
Jericho pushed him from behind. “Go!” he shouted. “I'll cover you!”
Micah slid across the deck and hit the glass railing stomach first. It was like a punch to the gut, but he barely noticed. The orange-bottomed, plexiglass lifeboat swayed next to him, strapped to its cradle. He stared at it.
The canvas cover was slit and flapping in the wind, the hatch slid open. Every boat was the same, all the way down the line.
Jericho grabbed his arm. “We're too late! Let's go!”
Panic roared through him. No. The terrorists had already gotten to the emergency beacons and ripped them out or destroyed them. All of them. No, no, no!
Thunder exploded overhead. Something whizzed by him. A crack that was distinctively not thunder. The wind was so loud, he couldn't hear much of anything else or pinpoint where it'd come from. Further along the deck? From behind them? Or from up on the bridge wing? He could hardly see anything through the fog of his glasses.
Jericho yanked him back. Micah stumbled on the slick deck. Lightning flashed bright as daylight. The wind thrashed at him, threatening to pull him right over the edge. They hunched their shoulders, ducking their heads against the wrath of the storm, and pushed through the glass doors.
“They'll come for us now.” Jericho wiped the rain from his face with the back of his arm.
Micah stood there, cold water slaking off him, his clothes soaked and clinging to his body. He shivered uncontrollably, despair flooding through him. “We're all alone out here. There's no one coming—”
Jericho got right in his face. “Get it together, boy. Are you going to stand there and blubber like a baby, or are you going do something?”
Micah fought back the panic. “Do something,” he forced out between chattering teeth.
Jericho nodded. “All right, then. Let's get the hell out of here.”
41
Amelia
Amelia blinked, adjusting to the gloom of the bridge. She remembered the captain explaining how the bridge remained dim at night to aid with navigation. Only the soft florescent glow beneath the control panel and the low lights along the floor illuminated the room. Everyone spoke in hushed, subdued voices, almost like it was a cathedral, a sacred place.
Except it wasn't a sacred place any more. The gold carpet was stained with blotches like someone had knocked over crimson paint cans. A dozen terrorists ringed the console, their huge guns dominating the room. Most were dressed in dark clothes and combat gear. The rest wore crew uniforms—security, officers, wait staff.
The bridge smelled sour, like body odor and sweat and fear, but also like something freshly rotting. It smelled like death.
Eight people slumped along the far wall below the security monitors. Their hands were bound behind their backs. Amelia recognized a few of the people from the captain's table. Four of them were already dead, their bodies slumped against the floor. Four more were battered and bloody, alive but unconscious. Her mother was crumpled on the end nearest the bridge door, her head resting on the shoulder of Omar Ferguson. Her face was bruised and cut in several places. Dark smears stained her arms, her cheeks, and the front of her dress.
“Mom!” But her mother didn’t look up. Amelia lunged toward her.
A man grabbed her arm and yanked her back. He didn't look like much, at first glance. The second glance revealed the truth: the slow blinking but intelligent, crafty eyes, the red slash of a mouth. “Not yet, my dear. I assure you, she is alive, though unconscious at the moment. But we have more important matters to consider.”
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“What do you want?” But she had a good idea.
The man pressed the muzzle of a gun against her side.
“Simeon—” Gabriel said from behind her.
“Leave her alone.” Declan Black sat in the captain's chair, his suit jacket draped over the back. His perfectly coiffed hair was mussed, his crisp white shirt dirtied and torn. Deep shadows were smudged beneath his eyes. Angry purple bruises marred the left side of his face and forehead. His bottom lip was split.
Fresh terror gripped her. Her father was always in the utmost control, ruling his world with an iron fist. Seeing him like this, helpless, impotent, at the mercy of thugs—it terrified her more than she could say. And yet, some tiny part of her whispered, now you know how it feels.
“Let's get on with this.” A man in an officer's uniform stood a little behind and to the right of the captain's chair, his rifle pointed at her father's head. He was huge and muscular, his neck nearly as thick as his head. He looked at her with glittering, rattlesnake eyes. He grinned, teeth bristling.
Amelia's heart constricted. The awful man from the ballroom.
“Soon, Kane. I promise.” Simeon turned toward Amelia, smiling at her like she was an honored guest. “We've calmly explained to your father that we will exchange the vaccine for his life and the lives of his family members. However, he appears too obstinate to cooperate with us, even for his own good.”
“Go to hell,” Declan growled.
“What are you talking about?” Amelia willed her voice to remain calm. Her throat was dry as sandpaper. “The vaccine was administered to forty million people on National Health Day. Two weeks ago. It was all over the news.”
“Oh, yes, my dear.” Simeon's lip curled in disdain. “But we aren't talking about that vaccine. The so-called cure BioGen unleashed on the poor American shmucks hasn't exactly performed as promised, has it?”
Amelia stared at him. A headache pulsed at the back of her skull.