She turned to him, summoning a smile.“What did you do?”
He shrugged.“Same thing.Engineer.Pay’s better on this ship, and it docks a lot more often than the aircraft carrier I was on.”
“Right.”The casual rhythm of their exchange grounded her.“Wish I knew what was happening,” she murmured, frustration threading her voice as she rubbed her palms along her arms, chasing away a chill that had nothing to do with the air.“None of this makes sense!”
“Pirates,” Hao said, his mouth turning downward at the corners, pulling the skin tight across his cheekbones.“They are getting worse.”
“The Valiant Voyager seems like a big ship to try to pirate,” Emanuel countered, glancing toward the barred door as if it might yield answers.
Hao shrugged.“Everyone is on the island.It’s the perfect opportunity.”He sighed then, deep and rolling from his chest, tilting his head side to side as if to loosen the knots in his neck, vertebrae popping faintly in the quiet.“We need better security.”
“We hear scuttlebutt of course,” Emanuel added, his fingers drumming a soft tattoo on his thigh.“But I’ve never seen anything.”
“It’s a big ocean.”Hao tilted his head, ear cocking toward the door, the silence stretching taut around them.“The shooting stopped.”
Emanuel pushed to his feet, crossing the narrow cell in two strides to press his face against the bars, cheek squishing against the cold metal as he craned to peer into the outer room.“Maybe we’ll get rescued after all.”
Under Anderson’s clipped directions coming through their earpieces, Jerry led the way down the narrow passageway, Sanders a silent shadow at his right flank, Ibrahim mirroring on the left.They held their weapons ready.They made the stairwell without incident, ascending to the fourth deck in taut silence, breaths measured, eyes scanning every bulkhead and corner.No other soul stirred the corridor—no footsteps, no voices, no litany of announcements.
They emerged at an intersection.Anderson’s voice cut through the comms, low and precise.“Someone is just inside the door.I don’t have eyes there, but I keep seeing a shadow.”
“Roger,” Ibrahim murmured, his voice a rumble in the quiet, his broad frame easing forward.He leaned out, weapon sweeping the angle, then snapped back.“Just closed doors.”
Jerry’s jaw tightened, the itch to charge thrumming in his veins like a live wire.“Heisman, which door?”
“Fourth on the left,” came the steady reply.
He glanced at his friends.Sanders gave a short nod, and Ibrahim’s eyes already locked ahead.“Let’s do this.”
They advanced with predatory caution, hugging the bulkheads.Jerry’s pulse hammered a restrained rhythm.Every instinct screamed to run and burst through the door.At the fourth door on the left—a plain slab of reinforced steel with a porthole, they halted, backs pressed flat.Jerry fished Cynthia’s compact from his pocket, the sterling silver warm from his body heat, and flipped it open, angling the mirror up to the glass in a practiced arc.One man, Chinese features, clad in a cook’s uniform.He leaned against a desk, arms crossed tight over his chest, his posture deceptively lax, a holstered sidearm bulging at his hip.
Jerry held up one finger, then jabbed it toward the target’s center mass.Sanders positioned at the handle while Jerry stepped back from the door, feet planting wide, the suppressed Chinese pistol rising in a two-handed grip.He nodded once.
Ibrahim swiped Captain Ege’s badge to unlock the door as Sanders twisted the latch and shoved it wide in a fluid surge.Jerry swung through the gap, body low and coiled, the world narrowing to the target’s arc.The man in the cook’s uniform snapped upright, eyes flaring wide in shock, mouth parting on a half-formed shout.A heartbeat later, his hand clawed for his gun, leveling it in a blur toward Jerry’s chest.
Jerry fired twice, the suppressed rounds whispering through the air, punching center mass with dull thuds that dropped the man back against the desk, his gun clattering unfired to the deck.Two more precise shots as the man slumped, arms unfolding limp, a bloom of red staining the white fabric as he slid to the floor.
Jerry pivoted, clearing behind the desk in a swift sweep while Ibrahim mirrored on the other side of the room.One glance revealed the man no longer lived.His nametag read, “Ming, Hong Kong.”Jerry retrieved the unfired pistol from the deck and jammed it into his belt.
Clear.
They converged on the inner door, a heavier barrier etched with the brig’s utilitarian warning in six languages.Jerry rose on his toes, peering through the porthole’s wire-mesh glass.He could see the holding cage on the right.It held three figures—Olive, face swollen and shadowed with bruises, flanked by two men, one in an officer’s whites crusted with blood, the other wearing an engineer’s jumpsuit.
Ibrahim gripped the handle, and on Jerry’s count, he wrenched it open.They flowed through, weapons sweeping the space in overlapping arcs.
“Jerry!”Olive’s sob shattered the hush, raw and breaking as she rushed to the cage door.Tears carved tracks down her bruised cheeks.“I knew you’d come.”
He crossed the room in three strides, eyes raking the men with her.The bloodied officer stood rigid with guarded tension.The other edged back, hands half-raised, uncertainty etching his features as he stared at their weapons.Sanders and Ibrahim fanned deeper as they cleared the far corners of the large room, muzzles trained on blind spots.
Clear.
Jerry reached the bars, his free hand threading through to cup her face.Brushing gently against the swollen curve of her temple and cheek, thumb tracing the purple bloom with a tenderness that knifed his gut.“I’ve been distracted, worrying over you,” he murmured, voice rough.
Tears streamed unchecked down her face, glistening on her lashes.“I’m sorry.I fell asleep—”
He shook his head, the motion firm, silencing her with a press of his thumb to her lips.No time for that.Plus, it looked like it hurt every time she spoke.“Trout, can you do anything about this door?”
“Standby,” Fisher’s voice came back, fingers no doubt flying over keys.
