by Kyla Stone
“You killed all those people . . .” Amelia moaned.
“So we could survive! We are God's chosen. We acted under the protection and blessing of God's will.”
“God is love,” her mother said, lifting her head. Tears tracked through the blood streaking her cheeks. “You did this. Not God.”
“The cure is not God’s,” Simeon spat. “And the cure is what we need.”
Thunder crashed, booming through the bridge, so loud and close the floor seemed to tremble. Lightning forked the sky, lighting up Declan's hard, defiant face. His mouth twisted. “You want your so-called cure? Get me and my family off this ship.”
“We’ve already discussed this. You provide access to the cure first.”
“You think I have it with me? It's stored in a secret, secured facility.”
“I'm surprised you left without it.”
A shadow passed across Declan’s face, so fleeting she couldn't read it. “It was unforeseen. An anomaly.”
Amelia spit out the blood pooling in her mouth. Her head throbbed. Her stomach pulsed in agony. There was something else. Something she was missing. Everything seemed fuzzy and far away, like it was happening through a red veil of pain.
Simeon typed something into his satphone with one hand. “Provide me the security codes to the location and identifying characteristics. My contacts will take possession of the cure, ensure validity, and then we'll discuss getting you off this ship.”
“Do you think I'm stupid? I will give you nothing before you provide safe passage for myself and my family.”
Simeon swore. “Unacceptable. Give us what we need immediately, or we kill your daughter.”
Declan glared at him. “I refuse to allow anyone to threaten me into submission. You do not get the vaccine in exchange for her life or anyone else’s. I will not barter with terrorists.”
Simeon kicked her again. “Then we don't need her. Too bad. Such a pretty thing.”
“Simeon, no!” Gabriel cried. But she barely heard him.
She tried to sit up, pain throbbing through her ribs. “Dad!”
Something flickered beneath her father’s composed features, an expression she had never seen before. His eyes widened, the whites showing around the irises. And there—a glimmer of anguish.
Hope beat in her heart. He did love her. He would do something, somehow, to stop this. To save her.
“Dad! Please!”
But he wouldn't look at her. His face contorted. Remorse flared in his eyes. Just as quickly, it winked out. His gaze dropped to his lap.
“Dad! Help me!”
In the dim lighting, she barely recognized him. Maybe there were tears glistening in his eyes. Or maybe there weren’t. She couldn't tell. Either way, he'd abandoned her. Either way, she was dead.
He wasn't going to save her.
He didn't want her. The single thought beat through the haze of terror and pain. He didn't want her.
He was her father, in everything but DNA. He had raised her. But he hadn't loved her. He couldn't have, after this. Dismissing her suffering—her impending death—without a mote of actual feeling. After all she had sacrificed for him, spending her life trying to please him, trying to earn his respect, his love.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. She didn't matter. Not to her father. Not to Gabriel. Not to anyone.
Amelia cringed, waiting for the bullet, praying it would be quick.
“Give me the girl,” Kane sneered, his gaze slithering over her.
Fear plunged a dagger into her belly.
“No!” Simeon said. “That's not how we do things.”
“You owe me!” Kane snarled.
“Enough!” Cheng's scar pulsed. He waved his rifle in the air. “We’re out of time.”
Simeon turned to him, his brows knitted, his jaw clenched. “What are you talking about?”
“The Voyager is wired with explosives. They’re set to go off in just under twenty minutes.”
Simeon's face blanched. He stared at Cheng with his mouth half-open. “What?”
“The ship sinks.”
Simeon’s eyes clouded with fury—and fear. “You can't do that. What about—?”
Cheng's rifle came to rest pointed not quite at Simeon, but very close. “We have our own orders. I'm sure you understand.”
“What orders?” Simeon cried. “From who?”
Tension sizzled in the air. Every terrorist stiffened, fingers hovering over their triggers. The power had shifted, subtly but irrevocably. Simeon and the New Patriots were no longer in charge. Cheng splayed his legs, his chest out, his nostrils flaring.
Fresh fear jolted through Amelia. Things were about to get worse. Much worse.
“Who gave those orders?” Simeon demanded.
The barrel of Cheng’s rifle swung up. “We share the same client, I believe.”
“And our extraction?” Simeon's voice went hoarse.
Cheng shrugged dismissively. “Will be taken care of. As promised.”
“I want the girl,” Kane said again.
Cheng nodded, not taking his eyes off Simeon. “Be my guest.”
Amelia's breathe stilled in her throat. Her bones turned to water.
Gabriel charged forward and grabbed Simeon's arm, his face etched with anguish and outrage. “You swore to me! You can't do this!”
Simeon pivoted, pointing his weapon at Gabriel's chest. “Do not interfere. We all must make sacrifices.”
“She's a human being, not a sacrifice!”
Simeon's expression was strained, his voice hoarse. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice, Gabriel.”
Kane grabbed her by her hair and jerked her to her feet. The floor rolled beneath her. She stumbled as he half-shoved, half-dragged her to the bridge door. She managed to hold on to her clutch, grasping it like a lifeline, like it could somehow save her from what was coming.
“No!” Her mother cried. “Please! Don't hurt her! Declan, do something!”
It was the last thing Amelia heard before the bridge door slammed behind her.
44
Micah
Micah stood with Silas, Jericho, and several security personnel in the CSO’s office. The walls were a bland white, the desk and shelves industrial steel. When they’d entered the office a few minutes earlier, they found a group of five men cowering in a small storage closet in the back—including Chief Security Officer Franz Schneider.
“What do you need?” the CSO asked. Schneider was a tall German man with an ex-military bearing, with graying reddish hair shorn close to his skull and watery eyes from decades of smoking cigars. Anger flared in Micah's chest every time he looked at him.
“Weapons and men,” Jericho said.
“We do keep a few weapons on board, but not enough.” Schneider opened a safe behind his desk with an old-fashioned key around his neck. It contained a half-dozen pistols and rifles.
“Could've used these a few hours ago,” Jericho said sourly, grabbing a Glock and clipping it to his belt.
Schneider rubbed his neck. “It is established cruise industry protocol and the official recommendation of Voyager Enterprises. Guns are still forbidden in most parts of the world. Most of our international crew would not know how to use one. To avoid undue stress on passengers, ship's officers do not carry weapons.”
“Undue stress?” Jericho’s eyes bulged. “They're worried about stress? How did Voyager Enterprises plan to protect their investment from hostiles?”
Schneider shifted uncomfortably. “The ship is equipped with LRAD sonic cannons, as well as high-powered water hoses and emergency protocols. We only travel in safe areas.”
“You made the erroneous assumption that a hostile attack would only come from the outside.”
Schneider blinked. “That is correct. We had no idea we'd been infiltrated by terrorists. No safety protocol can protect against all possibilities—”
“What about the drugs?” Micah interrupted, too furious to remain silent any longer. “Y
ou're smuggling Silk. Are you a terrorist, too?”
“Is that true?” Jericho narrowed his eyes. His hand drifted to the holstered Glock at his side.
Schneider looked about to deny it, but he sighed instead. “Only the drugs. I had no idea about anything else. We weren't smuggling it into the U.S. We were smuggling it out. There is high demand in certain countries for a substance that calms and subdues its users, rather than inciting violence and gang warfare.”
Rage jolted through Micah. He wanted to punch the man in the face. “It subdues the life out of them!”
“We all know what it's like to try and take care of our families.” Schneider's voice rose. “No job pays enough. They offered forty grand a shipment. I have two daughters. I could not turn it down.”
“And the guns?” Micah asked.
Schneider raised his hands. “I had nothing to do with the guns. I swear.”
“We don't have time for this,” Jericho said. “We have two objectives. Free the hostages from the muster stations and move as many survivors into lifeboats as possible, and infiltrate the bridge. The hostiles are holding high value hostages, as well as controlling the ship.”
“The ship can be steered from the engine room,” Schneider said.
“The hostiles already have the engine room. They gained control through subterfuge. We would not be so lucky. The door is reinforced steel and the windows are plexiglass. We could attempt to break in with sledgehammers or an acetylene torch, but we'd be sitting ducks in the process.”
“What do you recommend?” Schneider asked uneasily. He handed a pistol to each of his men, his eyes darting from the weapons to the men's faces. “A shootout on a ship is risky. This will only escalate the violence.”
“While you've been in here cowering like little girls, the violence has been plenty escalated,” Silas snapped.
Schneider shook his head. “The golden rule of piracy. Give them what they want. Don't resist. They take money and jewels and they leave.”
“These aren't just pirates.” Jericho's voice hardened. “They're also terrorists. They're out for blood. You're done hiding, do you understand? It's time to fight.”
“We weren't hiding! We were enacting safety protocols. In the event of any hostile attack, all personnel should retreat to their cabins. We are not trained in combat. We are given explicit instructions never to engage—”
“Enough.” Jericho checked the clip on his M4. “None of that matters now. We need a plan. To evacuate the passengers, we need a diversion at the muster stations, as well as security to sweep the deck as passengers board the lifeboats. The storm makes things tricky, but it'll be harder for the hostiles as well. We took out two of the bastards guarding the boats earlier. You may have a clear passage. You might have to fight through. I need a few of your men to help me take the bridge.”
“You have them, including myself. We aren't afraid to fight. We were simply following—”
“Do you have access to the bridge?” Jericho interrupted.
“As Chief Security Officer, my retinal scan will automatically go through, even if they've tried to change the security code. The problem is the security camera. They'll see us coming and shoot us as soon as the door opens.”
“That's why we need a distraction.” Jericho frowned, cracking his knuckles. “Can you pull up the HVAC system?”
“Yes, I have access. But—”
“How much space in those ducts?”
“There's two feet of space between decks for ductwork, wiring, and such. The amount of airflow required for the size of the ship ensures most ducts are wide enough for a small, nimble adult—if that's what you're thinking.”
“It will do. Micah, Silas, you'll come with me. Micah, you're the only one here small enough. Are you willing to volunteer?”
Micah didn't hesitate. He would do anything to put a stop to this, to end the killing. He caught Silas staring at him out of the corner of his eye, his brows furrowed in scrutiny. Like he recognized Micah and was trying to place him. Did he know Gabriel was his brother, that he'd turned traitor? Heat crept up Micah's neck, shame filling him. “Absolutely.”
“That's what I want to hear.”
They went through the blueprints on Schneider's tablet. “There are fans here and here.” He pointed a thick finger. “But if you enter here, through the vent in the Second Officer's quarters, located portside, you will have unobstructed access. However, several turns will be difficult to manage. The sheet metal has sharp edges, and you will likely make considerable noise.”
Micah's stomach roiled. “Sounds a tad more difficult than they make it look in the movies.”
Jericho smiled grimly. “Real life usually is.”
“Hope you're not claustrophobic.” Silas sounded like he hoped Micah was.
“You won't be able to open the grille over the bridge as the screws will be on the outside,” Schneider warned.
Jericho shook his head. “I have a workaround. He doesn't actually need to get in the bridge, just close.”
Micah bit the inside of his cheek, forcing down his anxiety. He focused on the blueprints, trying to memorize the twists and turns in the narrow, convoluted ductwork.
“What if they hear him?” Silas asked. “Won't they just shoot at the ceiling and blow him to smithereens?”
Micah tried not to imagine being trapped in a tight, confined space, bullets ripping through the sheet metal all around him. “What he said.”
Jericho frowned. “How close can he get without entering the actual bridge space?”
Schneider drew a line with his finger. “Approximately seven feet of ductwork extends beyond the interior wall before the vent located here.”
“Seven feet. That'll still work.” Jericho smacked Micah on the back so hard he almost pitched forward into the desk. “I guess you'll live through this after all.”
“Great,” Micah wheezed.
“Not much will filter into the vent and it’ll dissipate in less than five minutes, but it will probably still hurt like hell.”
Micah swallowed. “What?”
“You’ll need a mask. Unfortunately, I only have a flimsy surgical one.”
“What are you talking about?” Micah wasn’t sure he even wanted to know.
Jericho pulled something flat, shiny, and disc-shaped out of his backpack. A drone. This one was smaller than the neighborhood guardian drones, about the size of a large dinner plate. He pressed a button, and an LED light in the center flashed blue. He pried open the back panel. Micah glimpsed its guts—wires and electrodes and other stuff Gabriel would know, but Micah never had an interest in. Pain speared him at the thought of his brother. He shoved it aside.
Micah took a closer look at the drone. “Wait. Is that thing weaponized?”
Jericho smiled. “Protectionary measures only, I assure you. This one does have a modified tear gas canister, however. And it's going to save our asses.”
45
Willow
Willow crossed the last wall between the verandas, pushed off the glass railing, and threw herself to the deck of the Kid Zone. She was drenched and trembling, her heart slamming in her chest. But she was alive. She made it.
The exterior wall of the Kid Zone wasn’t all glass like some areas of the ship, but there were a bunch of windows and two sliding glass doors. She crawled along the slick deck on her hands and knees, crouching beneath the windows until she reached the glass doors.
She peeked inside, glimpsing tables full of coloring books and crayons, a robot-building center, a gaming station, wooden train tracks and bins of Legos. Several staff members slumped against a wall painted in bright Dr. Seuss colors. Their hands were tied behind their backs.
Only one terrorist guarded the room. He was seated, lounging on a pumpkin-orange bean bag, his posture weak, his rifle resting harmlessly across his knees. Most importantly, he faced the only entrance, his back to the deck.
Out here, the storm raged black and fierce. But inside, it was still.
Quiet. The lights were dimmed. The children were scattered around the room, curled up on beanbags or blankets on the floor. Dead? Her heart clenched—but no. A curly haired boy stretched and pulled his blanket over his head. They weren't dead. They were sleeping.
There couldn't be more than ten of them. When the terrorists boarded the ship, most of the parents had already signed their kids out for dinner.
There was no blood. And no bodies.
Whatever had happened on the lido deck, in the Galaxy Lounge, the royal promenade, and everywhere else hadn't happened here. Not yet. Willow scanned the room, searching for her brother.
Benjie. He'd fallen asleep on his stomach on the Lego mat, surrounded by the Lego hovercars and spaceships he loved to build. He still wore his raggedy Star Wars backpack.
She let out a trembling breath. Something inside her released like an unclenched fist. Her brother was alive.
Now she just had to save him.
She pushed herself into a crouch and tried to open the door. Locked. The deck doors were locked for safety reasons, to make sure the kids didn’t wander in and out unsupervised.
She tugged the knife from her bra and gripped the handle, her heartbeat throbbing against her palm. She waited for the crash of thunder to hide the beep, then she swiped her mom’s wristband over the door scanner.
Everything seemed to fall away. The only sound was the blood rushing in her ears. Her vision focused. She slid the door open just enough and slipped inside. She crept through the Kid Zone, silent as a ghost on her bare feet.
Five steps. Ten. Fifteen. She was almost on him. He wore a wrinkled waiter's uniform, the collar folded awkwardly. He had reddish-blonde hair, a little too long in the back, unkempt. A constellation of freckles dotted the back of his neck.