by Kyla Stone
Black boots. An attacker stood next to the table, only two feet from him. He tried to draw his legs closer to his body, to make himself invisible. Sweat stung his eyes. He bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to breathe.
“Silence!” a deep male voice shouted. A volley of shots rang out.
The noises quieted. A strange and terrifying hush fell over the room.
“Declan Black, where are you?” The man's voice was strong and commanding. Something about the way he spoke sounded vaguely familiar. “Please reveal yourself from whatever cowardly hole you've crawled into.” And then, incredibly, the man laughed.
“Here!” a woman cried. She was close, someone among the group huddled beneath the table. “He's right here. Don't shoot! I'm coming out!”
The attacker with the boots moved. With a groan and a crash, the table upended, the china dishes and half-full wine glasses spilling to the floor.
“Stand up! Make your entrance!” The man dressed in black in the center of the room pointed his rifle at the ceiling.
The group stood. Micah blinked in growing horror. More than two dozen men were scattered throughout the dining room. A few wore ship’s officer uniforms, a couple others were dressed as wait staff. Most wore dark clothing, strapped in combat gear with masks pulled over their faces. Each man carried assault rifles or pulse guns. They almost didn't look human. They could've been robots, or invading aliens.
All over the dining room, tables were upturned, chairs knocked over, broken china and shattered glass everywhere. Steak, potatoes, wine, and various steamed vegetables mashed into the carpet. And bodies. Arms and legs flopped awkwardly, gowns and tuxedos spattered with red. There were at least thirty bodies from what he could see. Maybe more.
The unharmed guests cowered on the floor. A balding man in his sixties held his wife, who was cradling her right arm, blood dribbling between her fingers. Several people lay prostrate, their hands folded over their heads. A brunette woman whose elaborate bun sagged halfway down her head moaned, holding out her purse beseechingly with both hands, like that was all they wanted, like it could protect her.
Everyone stared at the men with the guns, their faces leached of color, eyes shockingly wide. It was like they were in a trance, a nightmare they slowly realized they were all sharing together.
A middle-aged woman with a squash-shaped body and a helmet of glossy blonde hair gathered the trail of her dress in one hand and stepped away from the table. Meredith Jackson-Cooper pointed at the CEO with a shaking finger. “There! That's him. He's the one you want.”
“Judas Iscariot,” Black muttered, his face darkening.
A man in a waiter's uniform strode up to Black and pressed a gun against his head.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the man with the commanding voice. He stood on the musicians' platform. Two violins lay at his feet, one broken, its bow shattered. He had a ski mask and a gun but was dressed in a gray suit with a salmon-colored tie. A passenger. No wonder he'd sounded familiar. Micah had probably served him a dozen times.
“There will be no heroes, not today,” the man continued. “We have already secured the bridge and the engine room, the radio room, the security department. The lifeboats are guarded. Escape is futile. Be assured, any attempt at resistance will result in death.”
Some of the women started crying. A couple of men, too. The man in the suit ignored them. “You may be wondering who we are and what we want. We are the New Patriots, the sons of a legacy of liberty too long polluted. We are here to claim it back. We hereby declare war on the sham of the corrupt and greedy Unity Coalition—the shadow puppet masters of what was formerly the government of the United States of America. We declare a civil war upon insatiable greed and we demand—no, we shall have—justice. It is finally time to pay the piper.”
Micah stared at the man in horror. The New Patriots? No, he wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t.
Three attackers in combat gear guarded the man in the suit. One of them hadn't bothered with a mask. He was Southeast Asian, Filipino or Malaysian, with a silver scar carved down the right side of his face. He had twitchy eyes and a hard, dangerous smile, like he was born to kill.
The man in the suit turned to the waiter holding a gun on Black. “Take these agents of corruption as hostages and bring them to the bridge. As for the rest—” he spat on the marble floor. “Round them all up. Kill any who resist.”
“They’ll want Amelia,” Mrs. Black said in a low, desperate voice.
Micah turned toward her. Things seemed to be coming from far away. He tried to focus on her face, but everything was jerky, both sharpened and blurry. Gabriel, he thought over and over. Gabriel. He couldn't die yet, with so much anger between him and the only person who mattered. He wasn't ready to die. Not like this. Please don’t let us die. Keep my brother safe.
“Whatever they want from my husband, he won't give it to them,” Mrs. Black said, her eyes filling with fear and desperation. “They'll look for his family to use as leverage. Amelia doesn't know.”
Micah didn’t hesitate. “I'll find her.”
She gripped his arm. “God bless you. Thank you.”
Several attackers in masks surrounded the group. “You,” said a towering bulldozer of a man. The cords in his thick neck bulged, and his eyes through the slits of the mask were dark and beady.
Micah recognized him. The one Gabriel always complained about for ogling the passengers and harassing the lower level female staff. Kane. The traitor's name was Kane.
Kane gestured at Micah. “Get back to the kitchen where you belong. The rest of you maggots, fall in line.”
“Find her,” Mrs. Black whispered.
Kane prodded her in the back with the muzzle of his assault rifle. “Shut your mouth, bitch.”
“Don't you dare speak to my wife with such impudence!” Declan Black bellowed. Even with a gun to his head, he was self-assured, convinced of his own worth in the world—and sure everyone else knew it, too. “Your sins will find you out!”
The man in the suit strode up to Black. “No, my friend,” he said. The ski mask made his face featureless and so much more terrifying. “I'm afraid your sins are about to find you out.”
He smashed the rifle butt into Declan Black's nose. Blood gushed over his lips and dripped onto his tuxedo. The armed men jerked Black to his feet and led the hostages out of the dining room.
Something jolted in Micah's memory. He knew the man in the suit. Knew that walk, that voice. Simeon Pagnini. The leader of Gabriel’s New Patriots group. No. No, no, no. Dread stuck in his throat like a hook. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. But it was.
Kane elbowed Micah out of the way. He stumbled over an overturned chair and fell, his glasses sliding off his face.
“You!” A brawny man with a huge belly stretching over his belt pointed at Micah. His eyes were dark slits, his mouth full of yellowed, crooked teeth. He jerked Micah up, wrenching his arm. “Back to the kitchen. Make food. Now.”
The ship pitched and rolled, and the man took an unsteady step toward him. He rammed the muzzle of his rifle into Micah's stomach. Micah swayed on his feet. “How many do we have to kill? Or do you comprende?”
“We get it,” Micah forced out, shoving his glasses back into place with trembling fingers. The attackers marched Micah and the other waiters back into the galley. Two other others stood guard over the terrified cook staff.
Think. He had to think. He had to find a way to escape. Then find Amelia for her mother. But first, he had to find Gabriel. He could not, would not believe Gabriel was involved in this horror. There was an explanation. There had to be. One his muddled, terrified brain was too confused to work out. He needed to find Gabriel. Then they’d figure out the rest.
He moved to one of the massive stoves on trembling legs, picked up a ladle, and stirred the pot of bubbling blue lobster soup. At least here, there were weapons. Knives of all shapes and sizes.
He could get one.
&n
bsp; And then? What next?
He had no idea.
19
Amelia
Lightning shimmered in the distance. The air was heavy with humidity. Damp strands of hair stuck to Amelia's forehead and neck. The officer's deck was deserted and partially shielded on either side by the steel walls of the ship and the deck above it.
“Everybody’s either at the crew mess hall, working their shifts, or entertaining high value guests,” Gabriel said. “We've got this place to ourselves.” His walkie-talkie spat noise. A voice started to speak, but he turned it off.
“You don't need that?”
“Nah. Everything's fine.” He placed the walkie-talkie on a small patio table outside the doorway and shot her an appraising look. His brow wrinkled in concern. “You look cold. You’re welcome to the hot tub.”
“I can't,” she said, her cheeks heating.
“Why not?”
Her mind flailed for an excuse before landing on the most obvious one. She fluttered her dress. “I'm a bit overdressed.”
“No one's here to judge you.”
The truth was, she'd never been in a hot tub in her life. She couldn't. Too much heat was dangerous. But she was so tired of all the rules, all the don'ts, can'ts, and shouldn'ts governing her life.
“Maybe I can put my feet in.” She put her clutch on the table next to his walkie-talkie and kicked off her heels. She settled gingerly on the tiled edge of the hot tub, hiking her dress up past her knees. The bubbling water was hot and soothing against her shins.
Gabriel sat down beside her. He tugged off his shiny black shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs. “Your father seems upset. He's been on his earpiece constantly the last couple of days.”
“Have you heard what's happening on the mainland?”
Lines bracketed his mouth, his expression taut. “I've heard enough. They’re saying the CDC declared a state of emergency. I have a friend in Baltimore who messaged me yesterday. He's sick. He's sick and he stood in line for six hours to get that damn shot. Your father's latest cure.”
“That's not his fault,” she said automatically. “The bat flu is just one of a thousand strains. It mutates. By the time they synthesize a vaccine, it might be a completely different bug.”
He clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I thought it was for every strain, hence the term universal.”
She flushed. “Lots of things can go wrong with vaccines.”
“That's not what they advertised. They promised a miracle.” His gaze raked over her, his eyes hard, almost angry.
She blinked, breaking eye contact. “You say that like it's someone's fault.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Disease always spreads in dense, urban areas. It's been that way forever, since the flu epidemic in nineteen eighteen, the bubonic plague before that and all the epidemics since then—the India outbreak, the bat strain that wiped out half of Dublin five years ago. It's how outbreaks work. It's no one's fault. That's ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“You sound like you're blaming my father.” Her words felt brittle in her mouth. Hollow. She thought of Silas. Of her mother, always defending Declan, no matter what.
“Your father has made a fortune and a career out of the suffering of others,” he nearly spat. “First the cancer treatment, then the universal vaccine, now his microchip he wants implanted in every citizen.”
“The Vitalichip will minimize the spread of all these epidemics by alerting health and government officials of infection immediately. It’ll save millions of lives.”
“And how many billions will BioGen rake in, huh?”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s unfair. You think he should bankrupt his companies by giving it away?”
“No, I think it’s real purpose is—” Gabriel's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring like he was gearing up for an argument. But then he stopped. He sucked in his breath, his jaw muscle ticking. “Maybe we should change the subject.”
“Maybe we should.”
The silence lengthened, uncomfortable and tense. Maybe this was another mistake. Maybe she should leave. She should go back to the Oasis dining room where she belonged. But she wanted to be there even less than she wanted to be here.
The hot, churning water massaged her legs. Warmth seeped into her body. She stared at the tangerine and violet colors flickering softly across the water. She didn't want to leave. “Let's try talking about something nice, shall we? I'll start. If you could do anything, what would you do?”
“I'd be president, and I'd change the world.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I would rid politics of corruption. I would pass laws that actually helped the people.”
“Sounds like a nice dream.”
“It's real. We could fix things. Real change could happen, if people would stand up.”
She snorted. “Stand up against what? The disappearing bees? The droughts? The crop blights? The dying rivers? Are you going to do a dance and bring rain back to Arizona?”
“All of those problems were caused by humans who put greed above protecting the next generation.”
“Humans didn't kill off the bees or create deadly plagues or call hurricanes from the sky to decimate cities. Those are acts of God.”
He laughed, but the sound came out coarse and jagged. “Why would God do anything like that?”
“Because—” she stopped. The words in her head were her father's, not her own. She sighed. “You know what? Never mind.”
For a moment, they were quiet. The lights inside the spa glowed turquoise. The steam dampened her dress, heating her legs. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“What about you?” Gabriel asked. “If you could be anywhere, do anything, what would you do?”
That answer, at least, was easy. She rubbed the marks on the pads of her fingertips, the permanent indentations of the violin strings from years of dedicated practice. At first, she'd done it for her father, for that fleeting flash of approval in his eyes. Her father, who didn't value art or music, but who did merit winning and status, anything that reflected honor and prestige back on him. Her whole life, it seemed like everything she’d ever done was to please him.
But she played for herself, too. She’d never regretted the sacrifices her music demanded, the rehearsals, auditions, recitals, and competitions—it was all worth it. “I'd be at Julliard,” she said. “Practicing six hours a day. Becoming better. Becoming the best. I’d play for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra or the Vienna Philharmonic.”
Gabriel leaned back on his hands. “Sounds like a lot of work for a rich girl who could spend the rest of her life doing lunch, country club hopping, and getting massages.”
She flushed. “Money doesn't make people automatically lazy.”
“Could've fooled me.”
Her headache pulsed at the base of her neck. He was so angry all of a sudden. Tense and irritable. No matter how hard they tried, this conversation seemed to roll back around to the same antagonistic themes. Who had money. Who didn't. And whose fault it was. Maybe they were simply too different. Part of her wanted to leave—to escape, to give up on this whole thing. But something wouldn't let her. “You work on a cruise ship—you only see people when they're relaxing, not the eighty-hour weeks they pulled for the previous six months.”
“Wealth is its own drug. It inoculates you from need. From want. From risk.” The bitterness in his voice felt like a slap.
“You think I don't want things?” she asked, incredulous.
“Not like the rest of us. You don't know need. You don't know hunger.”
“That's not true.”
“And you, especially.”
She wiped sweat from her brow. She felt hot and a little dizzy. “What's that supposed to mean?”
He shot her a blistering look. “Don't play coy. You have that coveted mix—insane wealth and the kind of beauty no amount of money can buy. You live a life apart from mere mortals.�
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Anger swelled through her. She was used to such judgments. Usually she didn't let them bother her. But this was different. She didn't know why, but she cared what he thought about her, this boy with the bronze skin, the intense eyes and the unyielding set to his mouth. She swallowed. “You don't know me.”
“I don't need to. Wealth and class always comes with privilege.”
“Look, I don't know your life, obviously. But you don't know mine, either.” Her chest tightened. The edges of her fingers tingled. “Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.”
Her SmartFlex beeped. “Warning. Your biostats have exceeded healthy parameters. Please cool your temperature immediately—”
“Disengage.” The sensors worked even without internet access. But she didn’t need her SmartFlex to tell her something was wrong. She lifted her legs out of the water and stood on the ledge of the hot tub. She swayed as a wave of dizziness hit her.
“Wait—” Gabriel said.
She stepped off the ledge just as the ship rolled sharply. She stumbled and lurched forward.
Gabriel grabbed her arm and helped her to her feet. “You okay?”
She pushed away from him. “I don't need your help.”
“You look pale—paler than normal.” The aggression leaked out of his voice, replaced with concern. He pulled out a chair at a patio table with a closed umbrella. “Sit.”
She sat down. But the dizziness didn't go away. The headache pulsed against the walls of her skull. Lights danced in front of her vision. No. Please no. Not now.
She hated this feeling—this weakness. Her clutch was on the table where she'd left it. She wouldn't need it. She willed herself not to need it. She bent her head, breathing hard and rubbing the charms of her bracelet, pressing the point of the violin into the tip of her index finger.
Gabriel stood in front of her, watching warily.
The tingling sensation spread up her arms, flooded her belly. Her thoughts came slow and sluggish. Her tongue thickened in her mouth. It was hard to breathe, impossible to speak. Make it stop. Not here. Not now.