Say the Word (46 page)

I inhaled sharply at the sight and raced back to Judith, crouching before her with my knife held at her throat.

“I’m done playing nice,” I informed her. “Is there a guard outside this door?”

She glared at me, unmoved.

“Answer me,” I hissed, pressing the blade tighter against her jugular. I could see her carotid artery pulsing beneath the skin at twice the normal rate — despite her defiance, she was afraid of me. A tense moment passed, each of us deadlocked and determined to hold our ground.

But, when all was said and done, I was the one with the knife.

“Yes,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the gauze in her mouth.

“Just one?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“Good.” I swallowed. “If you do what I say, I won’t hurt you. Don’t pretend you don’t care about your life. We both know you want to see your son again.”

She bobbed her head slightly in acknowledgement, and I loosened the press of my knife against her skin.

“I’m going to take out your
gag and press the intercom. You’re going to yell for the guard to come in. Tell him—” I broke off, my mind racing into overdrive as I fabricated a plan from thin air. “Tell him it’s time to move me outside. Make it convincing, or I swear to god, I’ll be the last person you ever see.” I held her eyes for a beat. “And we both know, out of everyone you could envision spending your last moments with, I’d be at the absolute bottom of your list.”

Her reluctant nod of agreement brought a smile to my face.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” I told her.

I kept my eyes on her as
I rose to my feet and backed up several steps to reach the upturned wooden chair. Dragging it behind me, I walked back to the portal door, stopped next to Judith and tucked my glass blade into the neckline of my gown. I knew it might slice into the fragile flesh there, but I had nowhere else to store it and I sure as hell wasn’t relinquishing hold of my only weapon. With a steadying breath, I reached down and took off my high heels, throwing them across the room and out of Judith’s reach.

I stared at her for a long moment before pulling the gag from her mouth. She glared back at me with an icy intensity, but remained dutifully silent. With a nod, I rose and took hold of the wooden chair with both hands, my palms sweaty as I wrapped them around the rungs.

“Now,” I hissed at Judith, pressing the intercom button with my elbow.

She shot daggers at me with chilly eyes. “Miller!” she called in a shrill voice. “Get in here! It’s time to move her.”

Immediately I heard the sound of metal grating. My eyes followed the door’s lever as it rotated open and I pressed my body close against the wall, not daring to move a muscle as the portal swung open with a heavy groan and a man’s booted foot stepped through the entryway.

I allowed him t
o take a full step inside, his distinct facial profile immediately recognizable — Smash-Nose.

“What the hell?” he yelled catching sight of the empty room and starting forward.

Before he could make another sound or take another step, I used all the strength in my arms to heave the chair up and clip him hard across the chest. With an audible gasp he doubled over in pain, clutching at both his stomach and his nose which, if the blood pouring out of each nostril was any indication, I’d broken once more.

I didn’t spare a second, jumping over his prone form and out onto a thin metal gangway on the other side of the portal. I turned and reached for the heavy door, pulling it closed and locking it into place before Smash-Nose could even regain his feet. On the outside, the latch was simple enough — shaped like a small steering wheel, it rotated clockwise and slid a deadbolt into place, barring the door.

Once it was locked, I turned and collapsed back against the cool metal, heaving deep breaths in through my nose. My eyes went wide when I saw the view of the ship sprawled out below me.

I was standing on an open-air,
partially enclosed passageway on the ship’s bridge platform, looking down at a vast cargo freighter roughly the length of two football fields, give or take twenty yards. The lower deck was dimly illuminated by tall light posts and stacked with shipping containers, which I’d always thought looked like LEGO pieces from afar. Up close they were huge, each towering at least eight feet high and stretching nearly twenty feet long.

A horrible thought dawned. Were they using this vessel to transport abducted girls to other cities?

I only let myself contemplate that for a short moment – I needed to find a way to call for help and get off this ship. The door I was leaning against began to vibrate with the pounding of Smash-Nose’s fists, and the muffled sounds of his screams were audible even through the thick metal.

Someone was
bound to hear him eventually – and when they did, I couldn’t be here. I quickly turned the volume knob to mute on the outer intercom panel, so his calls wouldn’t be broadcast across the ship.

Removing my knife from my dress’ neckline, I saw a splatter of crimson — the glass had cut into me at some point during my escape. I ignored my wound as I took a firm hold of my blade once more and crept down the open-air passageway as silently as I could manage. The gangway’s metal grates were cold against my bare feet.

Ships are never quiet the way buildings are. There’s constant noise — the lapping of water against the hull far below, the grinding of metal against the wooden dock, the straining of ropes used to tether the boat to shore. It was eerie to be surrounded by so many unfamiliar sounds, enveloped in the darkness. The moon was just a faint sliver overhead, high enough in the sky for me to know that several hours had passed since I left Centennial.

I came to a halt when I reached a door and a long bank of windows. The residual light from the hanging gangway lamps illuminated the dark room enough for me to see that it was vacant.
I saw the shadow of a large steering wheel in the space directly behind the row of windows — these were the captain’s steering quarters.

Pushing open the swinging door, I slipped inside and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dim room. My fingers trailed across the immobile steering wheel, then skimmed down along the darkened control panel. There were so many buttons and switches, I felt instantly overwhelmed. None of them were conveniently labeled “911 EMERGENCY” or “LUX, YOU IDIOT, PRESS ME.”

Damn.

My scanning eyes finally fell on a
marine radio and hope stirred to life in my chest. I twisted the power knob on the transceiver box, pulled the handheld receiver from its cradle, and raised it to my mouth. Pressing the transmit button with my thumb, I spoke rapidly into the microphone, hoping someone on the other end was listening.

“Please, if you can hear this, my name is Lux Kincaid. I’ve been kidnapped and am being held on a container
ship at a dock somewhere in New York Harbor. I can see the southern tip of Manhattan and the Statue of Liberty out the window. Send help. Please.”

I repeated my message three times into the radio, but there was no response of any kind. I had no idea if I’d even broadcasted it correctly, and no time left to find out. I’d already lingered in this room too long.

Abandoning the radio, I turned and headed back for the doorway. I’d nearly reached the exit when my eyes caught on a black box labeled “FLARES” in bright red lettering. Before I could talk myself out of it, my hands were reaching for the box, pulling it down onto the floor where I crouched, and unsnapping the latches holding its thick plastic lid in place. With trembling fingers, I reached inside and pulled out what looked like a black, metal handgun with a distended barrel. It was far heftier than it looked at first glance, its weight considerable in my small hand.

There were two flare rounds nestled alongside the gun — I lifted them out as well.

I was surprised to find it wasn’t constructed much differently than my father’s shotgun — the barrel snapped open and I popped one of the rounds inside, easily clicking the barrel back into place once it was loaded. Now, I had a weapon — not one I knew how to use, not one that would be lethal to an attacker from a distant range, but a weapon nonetheless.

And, perhaps more importantly, a way to signal for help.

Popping the extra flare round into my cleavage, I left the steering room behind and slipped back into the corridor. I held the flare gun in one hand and my knife shard in the other as I walked down the passageway, the bank of windows to my left and the rest of the ship sprawling beneath me to my right. At the distant end of the freighter, my eyes caught on the exit I’d been seeking: a metal gangplank, sloping at a sharp angle from the raised deck at the ship’s bow down to the shore dock below.

My point of escape — if I could make it through the maze of shipping containers to the opposite side of the vessel. Nearly two hundred yards and god only knew what else separated me from freedom. Ignoring the nervous clench of my stomach muscles, I continued on through the passage, my eyes peeled for a way down to the lower deck.

After a few moments, I reached the end of the narrow corridor and came to a set of metal stairs that dropped steeply to the cargo hold below. I cast my eyes downward, searching for signs of movement on the deck, but everything appeared abandoned.

Placing one foot on the top step and gathering what remained of my dress train in my knife-wielding hand, I moved with extra caution. Not only was it a long way down, should I somehow survive the fall, I’d almost certainly shoot myself with a flare or impale myself with the glass shard when I hit the bottom. I held my breath as I traversed the stairway, the burning in my chest building to a steady ache in the time it took me to reach the deck. Exhaling with a whoosh when I felt my feet hit solid ground, I looked around and tried to get my bearings.

Before me, stretching as far as I could see, were three rows of shipping containers. They towered above my head, their chipping red and yellow paint revealing heavily rusted metal beneath. I kept to the shadows as I made my way to the right side of the deck, hoping I wouldn’t be spotted if there were any more guards on patrol. My heart froze in my chest when I heard the unmistakable sound of men’s voices volleying through the night air as they approached the stairs I’d just come down.

I dropped into a low crouch behind a row of
wooden crates, listening intently as they walked past.

“Where’s Miller? We’ve been working our asses off getting the girls loaded and he’s nowhere to be found, as usual,” one man grumbled.

I heard a responding snort from his companion. “Probably whacking off in a corner somewhere. You know how excited this shit gets him.”

“Well, I’m not picking up his slack anymore. Boss pays us all the same — not fair Miller does half the work for equal money.”

“Maybe he’s up on the bridge.”

The sound of their footsteps echoed down to me as they climbed the stairway. With a quick glance overhead at their disappearing forms, I darted from the shadows into the
passage between two rows of stacked containers, praying the men wouldn’t look back as they ascended. I kept my senses alert for other guards as I hurried down the row, tucking my body so close to the metal boxes I felt the skin scrape off my bare shoulder. When I heard the sound of muffled voices echoing around an upcoming corner, I skidded to a halt so quickly I tripped over my own feet.

My
toes failed to gain purchase on the deck and I sailed to the ground, my palms grating against the abrasive deck and instantly welling with blood. My glass knife flew from my hand and shattered instantly, reduced to a worthless crumble of shards, and the flare gun spun to a stop against a nearby container, thankfully not going off in a concentrated explosion of firepower. With a quiet yelp of pain, I scrambled to my feet and collected my gun, my ears straining to hear the noise that had set off my fall.

I waited thirty seconds in absolute silence, thinking perhaps I’d imagined the sound. I’d just decided to keep moving when I finally heard it again.

A quiet murmuring, emanating from the container to my left. Clenching my raw hands around the gun handle, I sidled forward. When I reached the front of the red steel box, I glanced around for guards but saw no one. Tiptoeing closer, I pressed an ear to the side of the container and listened.

Female voices, speaking in hushed whispers.

My stomach clenched as I shifted the gun into my left hand and reached out toward the metal door latch with my right. The voices inside fell silent as soon as the metal door rasped open. No amount of research, reading, or statistics, could’ve prepared me for what I saw when I pulled the hatch ajar.

There were at least fifteen girls inside the cramped space.

They stared toward the opening, their haunted eyes blinking against the sudden influx of light into their dark cell. Dirty clothes hung in rags from too-thin bodies and smudges of filth covered their exposed arms and faces. When I stepped forward, my face a mask of shock and sadness, they shrank back from me, likely fearful of the harsh treatment they’d become accustomed to whenever this door had opened in the past.

The stench of unwashed bodies was staggering — I wondered how many of these girls were sick with viral infections and malnourished from inadequate feedings. As I stepped closer, I saw past the fear in their eyes to the drug-fueled haze — their pupils were dilated, their irises glassy and unfocused.