Marie let the barb slide past, her expression unchanging as she straightened, the weight of the mission settling back into her shoulders.“What do we know about our VIPs?”
He shrugged, the motion fluid and dismissive, then clasped his hands loosely behind his back.“A couple attended the captain’s table last night.One was a judge.He had no security.The other was a blonde American.She had two security agents.”
“Armed?”Her tone sharpened, eyes narrowing as she leaned against the edge of a chart table, the cool metal grounding her.
Hao’s gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second.“I didn’t ask.”
She followed his line of sight to the corner of the bridge, where the navigator’s body slumped against the bulkhead—limp, lifeless, a dark stain on his chest.The sight twisted something low in her gut.“I could have taken him to the island,” she breathed, the words barely audible.
“Reginald decided it was more expedient to remove him.”Hao slipped his hands into the pockets of his white uniform pants.“What is the problem?”
Marie pushed away from the table and crossed to the wide forward window, her reflection ghosting across the reinforced glass as she gazed out into the endless blue.“The team sent to collect the wedding party with the VIP guests did not return,” she said, her voice steady but threaded with steel.“Comms is not replying, and the weapons room has been breached.”
Hao gasped, the sound raw and involuntary, his composure cracking as he stepped closer.“How is that possible?
She shook her head, dark hair swaying against her shoulders, frustration coiling tight in her chest.“We can’t know.I was hoping you’d have inside information that you’ve not shared yet.”
From the captain’s chair at the heart of the bridge, Reginald Hall stirred—former MI-6 agent turned MSS sympathizer, his silvered hair cropped close.He leaned forward, elbows on the armrests, his British accent clipping the words with dry precision.“You’ve received all of the intel you need.We don’t have any information on the VIPs despite our best efforts.”
Marie whirled toward him, her lips curling into a sneer that bared her teeth, heat flushing her cheeks.“Perhaps you should have anticipated resistance.”
“Based on what?”Reginald’s tone remained even, unflappable, his pale eyes meeting hers without flinching.“We are dozens of armed, trained fighters.They are fifty unarmed wedding guests.”
“Unarmed?”She closed the distance in three strides, until her face hovered inches from his—close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the faint lines of calculation etched around his mouth.She put her nose near his, voice dropping to a venomous hiss.“And now?”
He calmly shrugged, the motion lifting one shoulder as if shedding an unwelcome coat, his gaze steady.“Now we need to get more intel, obviously.If our signals weren’t jammed, I would try to search images from last night’s dinner and see if I can identify anyone.”
“Bah!”Marie spat the word like a curse, recoiling with disgust, her hands balling into fists at her sides.“Useless!”She turned sharply to Hao.“We have one of the wedding guests in the brig.”
His eyes widened, dark irises flaring with surprise.“Is that so?”
“Can you force her to give you information?”Her words came out urgent, laced with the desperation of a plan forming on the fly.
Hao thought about it, his brow furrowing as he rubbed a thumb along his jaw, the faint rasp of skin on skin the only sound for a beat.“Perhaps.If I were also a prisoner.”He turned to Reginald.“Knock me out.Make it bleed.”
Reginald rose smoothly from the chair, his movements economical, crossing to a nearby cupboard embedded in the bulkhead.He swung the door open, revealing a toolkit for the endless minutiae of shipboard life.His fingers closed around a heavy wrench.He hefted it in his palm, as if testing its balance.“You might want to have a seat.”
Marie clutched Hao’s hand, her grip fierce, nails digging crescents into his skin as their eyes locked one final time.“I love you, Hao,” she whispered.
He nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips as he eased into the nearest console chair, the leather creaking under his weight.“Stay in earshot,” he ordered Ming.“I’ll let you know when I know something.”
She turned her back then, steeling herself, shoulders squaring as she stared fixedly at the blue sky.The wrench whistled through the air, a dull, meaty thud echoing off the bulkheads as it struck his head.She winced.
Jerry twisted the curtain strip into a makeshift rope, then secured the end of it to the column on the third floor of the dining room by tying a bowline knot.He pulled and tugged hard, ensuring the anchor knot would stay in place and bear his weight.He made an overhand knot in the tail about every three feet until he reached the end.He glanced over at Brock, who nodded, then to Norton, who made an adjustment to his “rope” before nodding.
He didn’t look forward to this.They didn’t have gloves, and the friction burns on their hands were going to be real.They also didn’t have boots on.No way these dress shoes would grip the “ropes” to provide friction and braking in any meaningful way, nor would they offer any cushioning or ankle support upon landing when they reached the steel deck below.
They quietly laid down their rifles and shotguns on the carpeted deck while ensuring their pistols remained secure and would not alert anyone below by falling to the deck.Then Norton and Brock half-slid, half-climbed down to the second floor while he kept watch.As soon as he got the hand signal from Norton down below, Jerry pulled both of their improvised ropes back up and secured the long guns to them.One by one, he lowered the weapons down.
Finally, Jerry slipped over the railing and climbed down himself.The faint, muffled creak of the curtain fibers straining under his weight whispered up the line, barely louder than his pulse thundering in his ears.While not perfect, the knots he’d placed at intervals mostly helped reduce friction, protected his hands, and gave his shoes something to grip.
Mostly.
This time, the clang of the outer door slamming shut barely registered with Olive.She rose alongside Emanuel, eyes fixed on Ming and another man as they hauled an unconscious figure between them—gripping his limp arms, his boots scraping lifeless trails across the floor.Blood fell from the side of his head, pattering softly in their wake.
“Get back,” Ming said.He nodded to the other man, and they laid the body between them while Ming typed the code in the panel.The latch unlocked, and they dragged the man in, leaving him in a heap in the middle of the cell.
Olive charged toward the door.“Can you at least give me a first aid kit for him?”
