by Selena Kitt
“Frankie?” Tilly whispered, making her way back to her friend in the dimness.
Frankie said something behind her gag, and Tilly knelt down so she could take it off.
“Oh thank God,” Frankie whispered when it was gone. “Can you get me out of these things?”
“I don’t have anything to take them off with,” Tilly whispered back. “I can tell you how I did it—but even if we all get free, the door’s still locked.”
“Do you have your phone?” Frankie asked hopefully. “Where’s Beast? He warned me, he told me not to date Erich. He caught me coming out of The Block a couple weeks ago and we got into it. I told him to fuck off. Oh God, I shouldn’t have listened. Where is he?”
Funny how they both thought of him as the hero, someone who they could call to come to their rescue, when in fact he was one of their captors.
“He’s working with Erich,” Tilly said flatly.
“No.” Frankie stared at her, round-eyed, utterly disbelieving. Tilly wouldn’t have believed it either, if she hadn’t seen and heard it for herself. “What’s going on?”
“They’re going to sell us,” Tilly told her, keeping her voice down, not wanting to cause a panic in all the other girls. “We’re on some sort of cargo ship in Guilford Harbor. They’re shipping us overseas.”
“Sex trafficking?” Frankie gave a little, strangled laugh. “You have to be kidding me. That’s not for real.”
“This is for real,” Tilly whispered with a shiver. “And I don’t think it’s the first time they’ve done it. I think The Bottom Floor is a cover for this whole thing.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He’s not gonna save us either.” Tilly steeled her spine, glancing around the room. “I’m gonna have to do it.”
“You?” Frankie stared at her, eyes even wider, if that was possible. Tilly didn’t blame her for her doubt. She wasn’t so sure either. She only had one idea, and it wasn’t a great one.
“Do you think you could boost me?” Tilly looked up at the porthole, pointing. “I’m pretty sure I could wiggle out of that.”
“What about me?” Frankie blinked up at the porthole. “I could fit through…”
“But I’m not tall enough to boost you,” Tilly said, shaking her head. “Even if you stood on my shoulders.”
“Maybe there’s something we can climb on…” Frankie looked helplessly around the room, but there was nothing in there with them, except all the other bound, gagged, helpless women.
In the end, Tilly’s plan seemed the best option. Frankie did what Tilly had done, maneuvering to get her hands in front of her and using all her force to break the zip ties. It only took her one try, and her wrists weren’t bloody from the effort either.
The two girls stood under the porthole—it was a good ten feet up, maybe more, and Tilly wasn’t sure she was going to reach it, even if Frankie boosted her, and if she did, it might be locked. Or she might not be able to get through. Or, she could get stuck half in and out, like Winnie the Pooh in the books she read to Miles.
Miles.
The thought of her son jolted Tilly’s senses. If she didn’t get out of this, she’d never see him again. He’d never know that she was his mother.
She couldn’t let that happen.
“We’re going to get out of this,” Tilly whispered to her friend, putting her arms around Frankie. “I promise you. I’m going to get help.”
“I love you, Tills,” Frankie sniffed, and Tilly told her she loved her, too, and they were both crying by the time they parted. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Tilly nodded, glancing up. She hoped she wasn’t misjudging the size of that hole—and she had no idea where it led. One thing at a time.
“Be careful,” Frankie urged, offering her linked hands for Tilly to put her foot in, like a stirrup. She boosted Tilly up the wall, as high as she could—thankfully Frankie was model-tall, five-foot-ten, almost five-foot-eleven. Tilly grabbed hold of the edge of the porthole with her fingernails, wishing she was a man with a huge amount of upper body strength. Where was the latch?
“Get it?” Frankie urged, holding Tilly up, panting.
“There’s a latch,” Tilly whispered, turning, twisting, hoping she could get it open. It popped open suddenly, letting in cool air. “Got it! Can you boost me a little higher?”
“Stand on my shoulders,” Frankie called and Tilly glanced down, seeing several women awake, watching them now with wide eyes. Knowing that not only Frankie, but every single one of those women, were now counting on her, made Tilly feel a little nauseous.
Tilly wasn’t sure how she was going to manage it, but Frankie pushed and Tilly pulled, and eventually she got her upper body through the porthole, using her elbows to secure her from falling backwards. A whiff of fresh, salty air breezed by and she glanced back and forth, seeing no one on the deck. The porthole didn’t come out directly on the side of the boat, where if she pulled herself through, she’d fall into the water.
The problem was, it was a big drop to the deck below—one that just might break her neck, literally, if she wasn’t careful and landed wrong. She wished she’d gone through backwards—it wouldn’t have been as scary, hanging down and then dropping—but that would have been impossible.
Tilly saw that a fog was rolling in. That was good—it would give her some cover, if she ever got down to the deck. It seemed like a long way down. But was it? Could she fall ten feet onto a hard surface, head first, and not break something? Considering her alternatives, Tilly knew she didn’t have much choice. Even if she broke an arm—even if she sprained an ankle or something—she could still go find help. Right?
Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself through the porthole—it was a small opening, and her hips didn’t want to go through. Tilly wiggled and pushed, half-in and half-out, the deck looming closer but still so very far down, and she had no idea how she was going to do this without breaking her damned neck.
If she hadn’t gotten snagged, she probably would have. The cuff of her jeans got caught on the edge of the porthole, and for a moment she dangled, breathless, pressed against the metal side of the boat. She scrabbled with her hands for purchase, but there was nothing to hold onto. Then she heard a soft rending sound and her body fell the rest of the way.
Tuck and roll.
She covered her head instinctively, her body turning as she descended, and she hit the deck hard with her right shoulder, but she managed to turn into her fall and roll onto the deck, doing almost a full somersault before ending up, curling into a moaning little ball, on the ground. Tilly looked around, didn’t see anyone, and sat up, wincing at the pain in her already sore shoulder. It wasn’t broken—she could still move it—but it hurt like hell.
Taking as little time as she could to catch her breath, she crept toward the wall and stood, hugging the bulkhead as she made her way along the deck. Above her, the porthole was still open, and there was no way for her to close it, and definitely no way Frankie could reach it from the inside. She’d just have to hope she found help before anyone noticed she was missing.
Tilly didn’t know her way around a cargo ship, but she stuck to the shadows as well as she could. She proceeded up the narrow deck to what she took to be the bow of the ship, looking for some kind of stairway. Wasn’t the bridge of a ship usually near the front, up high? She stopped a moment, trying to remember pictures of cargo ships she’d seen, ducking behind a lifeboat to think. She didn’t want to hurry and make a stupid decision that would get her caught and end her rescue mission prematurely.
She knew time was of the essence, but this was a cargo ship, not a speedboat. They weren’t going to take off in a big hurry—she had time to think, to make the right decisions. When she was very small, her grandfather used to take her to the docks to see the boats. He’d been fascinated by them, and they had watched the big freighters together, Tilly high up on his shoulders. She’d been very young—maybe as young as Miles was now—but she remembered the e
xperience clearly.
Cargo ships had some kind of little superstructure near the bow and a bigger one at the stern. Right? That’s what she remembered, at least. And it was the back part that was usually bigger and higher and had the bridge or command center near the top of it. She remembered asking her grandfather about it, and that being the explanation. There would be radios there, or ship to shore telephones. She would call for help that way.
Of course, she risked seeing people if she went up to the bridge. But if she tried to get off the ship… wouldn’t there be a guard posted? And how long would she have to travel to find a person who might not be connected to this particular mission who could help her? The docks had seemed deserted when they arrived. Was there anyone nearby who could help her at all?
Getting to a phone seemed the fastest, smartest way to end this. If she could get one call off to 911—that’s all she needed. Guilford Harbor, cargo ship, slave trafficking, a dozen kidnapped women. They’d come barreling in like the cavalry, only in cruisers instead of on horses, and everyone would be saved.
Tilly snuck out from behind the lifeboat where she’d been hiding and looked back the way she’d come. That seemed like the big, empty middle of the ship, and the room she’d escaped seemed like it was in the forward superstructure. She’d have to go back that way.
Swiftly, Tilly scooted past the porthole she’d dropped from, glancing up and thinking of Frankie. It gave her the motivation to keep going, keeping close to the side of the ship, in the shadows as much as possible. Just before she reached an open doorway in the same bulkhead, she heard what sounded like the scraping of a chair, followed by the distinct sound of someone yawning.
Guard. It had to be the guard posted outside their room, she reasoned. Of course they would post someone. She breathed a sigh of relief that no alarm had already sounded—she and Frankie had been quiet enough not to alert him, trying the locked door and boosting her up to the porthole. Then she peeked around the corner and saw why. He was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, wearing a pair of earbuds that led to either an iPod or iPhone.
Anyone could come down that well-lit hallway, she realized, and see her sneaking past. The guard could get a call or catch sight of her out of the corner of his eye. But if she didn’t chance it, she’d have to go all the way around to the other side—and what if there was a door on that side, too? She decided to chance it, checking to make sure his eyes were still closed as she crept by the opening on tiptoe like some cartoon character trying to be quiet.
She was glad he had headphones on, because if he hadn’t, she was pretty sure he would have been alerted just by the sound of her heart beating so fast and her panting breath. Tilly was terrified, but it hadn’t paralyzed her, surprisingly. So far, she’d managed to keep her head, and she felt strangely confident, even if she wasn’t really sure of anything.
She didn’t know where the bridge was or whether she could get a call out for help out even if she found a phone. She had no idea if she would be discovered skulking around the deck and thrown back in with all the other bound, gagged women. She was pretty sure what she was doing was both foolhardy and dangerous—but she couldn’t imagine not doing it, either.
Tilly had gotten them into this—poor Frankie was still locked in that awful room—and she was determined to get them out of it.
The middle of the ship was the hardest part. Here, she was out in the open. However, it was, blessedly, relatively dark. Some of the aft superstructure was brightly lit up, giving her a good idea of where the bridge must be. It seemed to be several decks up. This ship was huge—and she was sure the women in that room weren’t the only illegal cargo loaded on it.
She dodged from one object to another. A mast here, a hatch cover there, and swiftly made her way to the aft superstructure. She climbed a number of stairs, avoiding lit portholes and sounds, especially human sounds, whenever possible. She tried to control her breath, heart hammering in her ears the whole time, sure at any moment, she would be discovered.
Then she heard a sound that stopped her cold. Tilly’s heart rate increased, her breath disappearing altogether, as her stepbrother’s voice carried towards her.
“Come on, Erich! Relax, man. You’re too uptight. Everything’s fine. It’s just the stress talking.”
Tilly swallowed, hugging the wall close, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.
Erich helped her out by replying, “I’m telling you, we’ve gotta go. Now. You know my instincts, and they never lie. They say never mind Debrovna. Go. Now.”
“Oh, your instincts.” Beast snorted a laugh. “I remember what your instincts said in Kabul. You remember? That didn’t turn out so well, did it? Listen—without Debrovna here, the people on the other end of this will get mighty suspicious. He’s our man. He’s the one who’s going to assure them that it’s all above board, that we know what we’re doing, and that we’re not just a bunch of idiot amateurs who think they’re going to pull something off on the triads. You don’t want the triads on our ass, do you, Erich?”
“Of course not. But...”
“Relax. So Debrovna’s two minutes late. It doesn’t mean anything”
“I think I should at least call...”
“No. Absolutely not,” Beast objected, and Tilly knew that tone well, rolling her eyes at it. “Remember the instructions? No calls—not at this point. They get antsy when you ignore instructions.”
Why are you listening to this? Tilly asked herself. Get moving. But the sound of Beast’s voice made the tears flow again and she tried to fight them. She wanted to let all her thoughts and memories of Beast go, set them on fire and push them into the water like a Viking funeral, but she couldn’t. Just the sound of his voice brought the pain back, sharp and focused.
Focus, she told herself. That’s what she needed right now. She wasn’t going to get them out of this if she didn’t.
That’s when something scurried over her foot, and she saw only a shocking glimpse of revolting tail as it disappeared around a corner. Tilly did the worst thing she could have possibly done, although to be fair, it was a completely involuntary response.
She screamed. It was a short, sharp sound and she clapped her hand over her mouth almost immediately, but it was too late. She knew she’d given herself away. There was no way Beast and Erich hadn’t heard her.
Like lightning, Tilly bolted up the nearest stairs towards the bridge. No point in trying to be quiet now. She ran around a corner and ducked behind a stack of boxes. She heard Beast coming after her, swearing under his breath as he hurried by, and she shrank further into the shadows, fully expecting him to find her hiding place.
But he passed her by. She waited a moment, not hearing any more footfalls, and popped her head up. No one. Slipping out from behind the boxes, she took off in the opposite direction and tore up another flight of stairs, towards where she was hoping, praying—if there is a God, please—she would find the bridge and some way to get a call to 911.
Just when she feared she’d simply cornered herself near the top of the superstructure, she went through a door and found herself on the bridge, just as she’d hoped—consoles, radar screens, charts, and, yes, radios. Warm blue and green lights glowed everywhere, and there were low crackling sounds, the occasional beep. And, by some miracle, there was nobody else there.
Then, a strange, masculine voice made her jump and nearly scream again.
Tilly ducked under a console, telling herself she would give them the fight of her life when they went to drag her out.
“At the sound of the tone following ten seconds of silence, it will be precisely twenty-three hundred hours, eastern standard time...”
A radio. Just a radio.
Her shoulders sagged in relief and she almost burst into tears, but there was no time for that. She climbed out from under the console, still breathing heavily from her run.
Now all she had to do was find a radio or some way to communicate with the outside world. But all of
the equipment was foreign to her, confusing, and she knew they were looking for her now. There would be no time to figure out new technology.
Was she really going to get this close to freedom, only to be stopped by her inability to make a phone call? If she could find a damned phone…
Then, right there on a pillar, she saw it.
A phone. A real, honest to goodness, old fashioned, hanging-on-the-wall telephone, blue with big black letters above it:
SHIP TO SHORE
Thank God!
She seized the phone and punched in 911—it wasn’t old enough to be an actual rotary phone, anyway. As long as it worked. Please, God, let it work. What if she had to do something stupid, like dial a code for an outside line? She listened to the silence, breath held, waiting for it to ring.