by Kyla Stone
He took her back through the narrow crew passageways, down several flights of rickety metal stairs and past the crew and staff mess and rec areas. They didn't see a single person. “This is the crew entrance, since the main entrances are currently blocked by construction equipment. Close your eyes.”
Her stomach tightened, but she closed her eyes and allowed him to lead her. The air changed, grew colder. She sensed space on either side and above her. Gabriel guided her up two steps.
“Stay here, but don't look. I'll be right back.”
Curiosity plucked at her, but she obeyed, rubbing her charm bracelet as she waited.
A minute later, his footsteps returned. He took her hand. Sparks shot through her. His fingers were warm, strong, and calloused. She wasn't used to touching such rough skin. It wasn't a bad thing, no matter what her father said. “Can I look?”
“Open your eyes.”
She gasped. She stood on a small carpeted platform in front of several massive underwater viewing windows built into the ship's hull. The water on the other side of the windows was black and seething. The rest of the room was a theater with seating for at least five hundred people.
“Look up.”
The domed ceiling twinkled with a soft blue glow. Beautiful lifelike holographic creatures swam through the air above them—thousands of fish in various colors and sizes, different species of sharks, whales, and dolphins. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and looking up, up, up through leagues of water brimming with sea life.
“The owner of the Grand Voyager, Kevin Murdock, planned this for years. He modeled it after a planetarium, but he calls it the Oceanarium. It'll be ready for its grand opening in a few months. For now, it's empty until the painter returns to finish the murals. Metalheads aren’t so great at works of art. Go figure.” He patted the ladder behind him, a splattered paint can on the bottom step. Behind the seating area, the walls were surrounded by ladders, canvas tarps, boxes, and tools.
A sea turtle drifted by a few feet in front of her, flapping his flippers lazily. The outline of his body glowed a faint electric-blue. It was absolutely beautiful. “This is spectacular,” she breathed.
“Watch this.” He reached toward a school of angel fish. The holographic creatures sensed his hand and darted away in a flash of glittering scales.
She followed Gabriel's lead and waved at a Bottlenose dolphin gliding toward her. The dolphin waved its flipper. She laughed.
“You can feel them, too. The projections use plasma. The haptics mimic the sensation of touch.”
She watched two manta rays sail through the air. “Do they respond to music?”
He grinned. “They do. I’ll bring you back here later, and you can play. We’ll see which music they like better—classical or good ole rock ‘n’ roll.”
She couldn’t keep a matching grin off her face. She would absolutely love that.
And then Gabriel was beside her again, his hands in her hair. He tilted her head toward him and kissed her. For one wonderful moment, she forgot how she was supposed to act and just let herself be. She let herself feel everything—his fingers brushing the curve of her ear, the fizzing in her belly, the rush filling her entire body.
His eyes were dark and fathomless as he gazed into her own. Like he really saw her.
Something crashed somewhere above them. “What's that?” she asked against his lips.
“Just thunder.” He kissed her deeper, harder. She felt like her feet might leave the floor. She could float like the incandescent sea creatures swirling around them, blue and sparkling.
The sound came again. A boom, different than thunder. Amelia forced herself to break the kiss. “That was weird.”
Thunder rumbled.
“Just the storm.” He bent toward her, digging his hands into her hair.
She pulled away. “No, it was—”
A low rat-a-tat sound. Like firecrackers. Or something worse. She swallowed. “Maybe we should go.”
“Nonsense. Everything's fine.”
But the moment was broken, the anxiety of the real world creeping back in. The sound came again from somewhere above them, somewhere on the ship. She wiped her palms on her dress. “If everybody else is at their muster station and I'm not there, my mom will flip out. Like, literally. I should find her and let her know I'm okay.”
“I really think you should stay.”
“I'll come back, I promise.” She flashed him a smile even as she moved toward the edge of the platform. “Or I’ll message you my SmartFlex code and we can meet back here—”
“Amelia.”
The way he said her name made her stop. She turned around.
He faced her, his shape framed against the black water in the viewing window behind him. His jaw was set, his face rigid, all the softness gone. Her gaze lowered, slowly focusing on the object in his hand.
He held a pulse gun. It was pointed at her.
She blinked, trying to erase the image in front of her. But it refused to disappear. Her heart wormed its way into her throat. “What—what are you doing?”
“I'm sorry, Amelia. But I can't let you leave.”
Her gaze slid across his face, unable to gain traction. His expression was closed, unreadable. He looked like a stranger, like someone she'd never seen before, let alone kissed. Her confusion gave way to a low, pulsing dread. “Why not?”
“There's something happening, something bigger than both of us. You're gonna have to trust me.”
Panic bloomed in her chest. She could feel her frantic heartbeat in her teeth. “Are you—are you kidnapping me?”
He laughed, but the sound was cold and hard, an imitation of a laugh. The gun didn't move, the barrel still trained on her. “Keeping you out of harm's way is more like it. But we may need you to do a few things for us.”
She thought of her mother, her brother. “What harm? Who are you?”
He jutted his chin. “I am the New Patriots.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We are taking back our country from the greedy and the corrupt elites and returning it to the people. We’re destroying the rotten-to-the-core Unity Coalition, starting with its head.”
Understanding dawned slow and ugly. The New Patriots. She'd seen them in the news. The ones always marching and ranting. The ones suspected of bombing several government buildings and monuments over the last few years. “You're . . . a terrorist?”
No!” he almost shouted. “I am a Freedom fighter. Like the Sons of Liberty when this country first fought for its freedom and prevailed. We'll do it again.”
She stared at him, barely able to hear his words. The wind was in her head, a great whooshing sound drowning everything out.
He gestured with the gun. “Now sit down.”
She sat. Shock and terror locked her limbs. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could hardly breathe. She'd been manipulated and trapped, as easily as capturing a firefly in a jar.
Her fear came down over everything, snapping shut like a lid.
She'd been used. Again.
22
Micah
The air in the galley was hot and stifling. Micah stirred the soup for what seemed like hours. The armed attackers swung their rifles, alternatively pointing and shouting. Some spoke perfect English. Some didn't speak English at all. Who were these people? And what did they want, other than death and destruction?
“I need him,” Chef Jokumsen said in his Danish accent, gesturing at Micah. He stood at the long food prep table with a handful of waiters and the service bot galley staff, assembling dozens of turkey sandwiches for the terrorists.
“What did you say?” Kane demanded, a menacing gleam in his eyes. He was leaning over Su Su, a Burmese girl flipping buffalo burgers at the grill a few feet from Micah.
“You want food?” Chef Jokumsen barked. “I need more hands. And I need her, too. The burgers are ready.”
Kane's gaze slid up and down Su Su's trembling body. “They don't look ready.”
Kane nodded grudgingly. He bent and sniffed Su Su's hair. “Go. For now.”
“Boy, turn up the soup before you come over,” Chef Jokumsen ordered Micah.
Micah turned the heat to the highest setting. Su Su scooped the burgers onto a platter, her hands shaking so badly, she dropped a burger on the floor. Kane was so close, Micah could feel his breath on his own neck.
“Pick that up nice and slow,” Kane drawled, winking at Micah.
Su Su obeyed, then scurried to the prep table with the burgers. Micah followed behind her. He bit the inside of his cheeks in anger at his own helplessness. Kane had no right to treat another human being that way.
He stood on the other side of the prep table, opposite the head chef. The terrorists leaned against the wall of stoves, watching them. Kane grinned maliciously, his eyes lasered on Su Su.
“Slice these onions,” Chef Jokumsen said, shoving a cutting board, a bowl of onions, and a gleaming butcher knife at them.
Su Su held the knife over the cutting board, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“It'll be okay.” Micah wanted to reach out and comfort her, but touching her now seemed like the wrong move. He grabbed a knife and chopped an onion clean in two, slamming the blade with the force of his anger and fear.
“Save your energy, boy,” Chef Jokumsen said under his breath. “Your brother is security, yes?”
“Yes,” Micah said, barely trusting his own voice.
“Do you know how to use a weapon?”
“Enough,” he lied. He knew nothing about knives or guns or fighting. He hadn't needed to; Gabriel always protected him.
“These other cooks can only braise lamb. They don't know crap.” Chef Jokemsen slapped finely sliced turkey between two slabs of pumpernickel bread. “There's a Geronimo button, to send a mayday signal, in the captain’s quarters. The lifeboats have satellite beacons. Remember your emergency training.”
“How am I supposed to get there?”
“That's your problem. I get you out of here, then you're on your own. You can go around the fresh foods side, to the elevator. Nobody's over there. I checked a few minutes ago. The bastards supposedly guarding the elevator are in the pastries section, gorging themselves on Devil's Food cake. I create the distraction; you go. No hesitation. Yes?”
Fear raised every sense to high alert. Micah slipped a small knife in his pants pocket. Hopefully he wouldn't accidentally stab himself when he ran.
“Come with me,” he said to Su Su.
But she just stared at him with wild eyes, frozen in fear.
“No good,” Chef Jokumsen murmured. “I'll watch her. You go now.”
Micah nodded.
“Sirs!” Chef Jokumsen hollered. “The soup behind you is overflowing. If it touches your skin, I'm afraid it will burn.”
Both guards turned toward the unsupervised soup spilling over the sides of the pot in a boiling hiss of steam.
Micah whispered a prayer under his breath. Then he ran. A crash sounded behind him as he dashed around the corner of the wall of ovens.
“I'm so sorry, sirs,” Chef Jokumsen nearly yelled. “I'm clumsy today! I've no idea why.”
Micah sprinted through the fresh foods section, the prep tables spread with onions, olives, and dozens of heads of lettuce. He hit the elevator button, his heart slamming. The seconds it took to open felt like an eternity. Chef Jokumsen bellowed something, arguing with one of the other chefs about nothing, creating more noise to mask Micah’s own.
He scrambled into the service elevator and waited for it to lower to the provisions area. The elevator only traveled between the main provisions area and the galley, bypassing all the passenger areas. Hopefully, the terrorists hadn’t made it down there yet. Either way, he had to take the risk.
A voice that was not the cruise director’s normally chipper tenor came over the PA system: “All passengers and crew report to your emergency muster stations immediately.”
The elevator doors slid open, and Micah rushed out into the cavernous provisions area filled with towering rows of pallets stacked with boxes and bags of goods like cleaning supplies, paper towels, and soap. He maneuvered around a driverless forklift and passed two workers unloading a pallet of toilet paper.
“Terrorists boarded the ship,” he said breathlessly. “Don't go to muster. It's a trap. Go to your cabins and lock and bar the doors with anything you can.”
They stared at him, wide-eyed. “You're joking.”
“I'm telling the truth.” Down here with the loud engine drone drowning everything out, they hadn’t heard the suppressed gunshots or the screams. And he had no time to convince them.
He left them behind, racing through the provisions area to the crew quarters, quickly checking Gabriel's cabin, the mess hall, the crew lounge and bar. Nothing. Gabriel wasn't down here.
Doubt crept in again, and Micah shoved it out of his head. Simeon Pagnini was a terrorist. That didn’t mean Gabriel was. It didn’t mean his brother was involved. There had to be some explanation. Gabriel would explain it all, as soon as Micah found him.
Think. Micah had to think. Where would Gabriel go? He was probably with a girl. Maybe Teresa, the one he’d been seeing the last few weeks. Or maybe Amelia Black. She wasn’t in the dining room. If Gabriel was with a girl, he’d take her somewhere to impress her, to show off. Somewhere without people, because he'd want to make a move on her.
The Oceanarium. He and Gabriel had joked about its aphrodisiac qualities. That was exactly where Gabriel would go. There were a few passenger entrances still under construction, and a crew entrance on the starboard side. Micah wouldn’t have to pass through any passenger areas to reach it. He raced along the narrow corridors until he came to a set of metal doors shielded by a sheet of construction plastic. He tore it away and heaved open the door.
He straightened his glasses, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim light of the Oceanarium. His uniform was damp with sweat, though the air was chilly. He walked down the aisle on legs still trembling with adrenaline.
He took in the vast Plexiglas viewing area, the floating hologram sea creatures, the stadium seating, the two people standing on the raised dais. The Oceanarium wasn't empty.
Amelia stood on one side of the platform in front of the viewing window, resplendent in her white Grecian gown, pale hair glowing silver-blue in the shadowy light. Gabriel stood on the other side of the platform, about ten feet from her.
Micah’s brain refused to take in the signals it received. There must be some mistake. This couldn't be real.
His brother held a gun. And it was trained on Amelia.
Micah stumbled, his leg bumping against one of the stadium seats.
Gabriel swung toward him. The gun swung with him. “Welcome to the party, brother.”
23
Willow
Willow's legs and lower back cramped. Her eyes burned. There were no windows in the Galaxy Lounge. She had no idea what time it was. The lights blared on, minute after minute, hour after hour. Hundreds of people sagged in the round sofas and tufted arm chairs or slumped on the ground, using the seats as backrests.
Six armed attackers patrolled the perimeter of the room with two more on the stage, the purple curtains closed behind them. Three of them were women, their expressions hard, their eyes cold as ice. They used walkie-talkies to communicate, many of them speaking in languages she didn't recognize, other than a few passing phrases in Tagalog, Chinese, Spanish, and English. At least one of them spoke with a Boston accent.
She couldn't stop shaking. Calm down. You need to calm down. Her mind felt shredded. She couldn't even make her eyes follow the gold geometric patterns in the carpet.
Zia was in here, somewhere. She was still alive. She was okay. She had to be. But she must be out of her mind with terror. She was just a kid, all alone in a sea of chaos and fear. Her sister was alone because Willow deserted her. No
w she couldn't even think of the reason why, couldn't figure out how it had ever seemed important. Guilt ate at her, the words she’d hurled at Zia echoing in her head. I don’t want you around!
People murmured in low voices on either side of her. Some of them called the attackers terrorists; others used the term pirates. She didn't care. They were the enemy. And they were killers.
Through shouts and gestures, the attackers made it known they wanted wallets, purses, earrings, bracelets, watches, SmartFlexes—whatever they could get their hands on. They carried pillow cases among the rows, demanding everything—even wedding rings. People pleaded, whimpered, tried to argue and reason. Someone offered the men six hundred million dollars each to let him and his wife go free.
“You have the money now, yeah?” The attacker laughed, struck the man in the face with the butt of his rifle, and moved on.
The attackers kept shouting, waving their guns in people's faces. A few babies wailed. Men and women wept.
“Don't move. Don't speak,” the woman next to her had said after the terrorist dragged Willow in and slammed her down at the end of one of the middle rows. The woman clutched a squirming, wiggling little girl in her lap. The girl wore a lemon-yellow bathrobe, and her inky hair stuck to her scalp in damp strands like she’d just gotten out of the bathtub.
“Don't scream,” the woman whispered over and over, gripping her daughter's hand so tightly, her fingernails dug into the little girl's skin. “Don't scream, don't scream.”
Passengers tried to rush the terrorists three different times. Once someone had a pocket knife, another time two security officers had tasers. Three times they failed, the bodies left where they dropped. A middle-aged brunette lady started a terrible keening wail that wouldn't stop. An armed man stomped up to her, shouting. He thrust his rifle in her face.
Everyone watched in mute horror. Willow wanted to look away but couldn't, her mind screaming, stop, stop, stop.
But the crazed woman kept wailing. The terrorist pulled the trigger. Two shots slammed into her. The woman's body jittered, then slumped over.