Say the Word(142)

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.