Forged(42)

I wonder momentarily if the smoke I saw came from the hotel, not the bookshop. All those times I gave Adam a hard time about not being committed to this fight . . .

“And Charlie? Badger?”

“No word yet,” Sammy responds. “Looks like it’s our cozy little team again.”


At a predetermined location on the Gulf, May’s trawler meets a second. September waves to us through the rain, a small smile on her lips.

After securing the boats together—a near-impossible task in the choppy conditions—our crew climbs the railings and leaps over to September’s ship. She introduces us to Daley, an AmEast fisherman who she claims is one of Badger’s best clients. We’re cutting across the water again before I have a chance to shout a good-bye to May and Carl, but maybe this is best. Good-byes lately have seemed so permanent. And this isn’t good-bye. I hope not, at least. We’ll just be walking different roads for a while.

Before we’re in sight of shore, September ushers the team belowdecks. She lifts a panel of flooring in the crew quarters to reveal a hidden storage compartment for smuggled goods. I imagine it’s often filled with drinking water, but today, it holds spare fishing gear.

“You expect us to all fit in that matchbox?” Sammy says.

“Course not. Inspection crews know about this compartment. It’s standard on a lot of ships.” She hauls out the gear. “You’re going below.”

This is when we realize the floor gives way again, to a space no less cramped. We’ll fit, but only if we all lie down, shoulder to shoulder, and are shut in like corpses.

“Come on,” September urges. “I don’t have time for fits of claustrophobia. I might have a few people in my pocket in Bone Harbor, but I can’t escort you in plain sight.”

“Will there be enough air?” Bree asks.

“It’s ventilated,” September assures her. “And it’s not for too long.”

“But long can be so subjective,” Sammy muses.

“Just get in.”

I go first. Bree follows. Then Sammy, Emma, Clipper, and Harvey, until we’re lined up like game on a rack.

“Not a sound until I lift this door back up,” September warns. “You have to wait out the inspection, and then for the port to clear. I’ll get you when it’s safe.”

The panel comes down, trapping us in and leaving us blind.

“I’m in a coffin,” Sammy says. “I’ve been buried alive.”

“Shut up,” Bree hisses.

The second panel is secured overhead with a muffled thud.

“Could be worse, I suppose. At least I’m sandwiched between two pretty girls.”

Bree elbows him. “Shut your face, Sammy. You’re wasting air.”

“It’s ventilated,” he mutters, but he falls quiet after that.

We wait for what feels like forever. The rig eventually slows. I feel the ship scraping against a dock, hear the muffled shouts of the crew securing it. Footsteps follow overhead.

“I told you, already,” September says. “We’re clean.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” a gruff voice responds. Feet pound nearer, stopping right above us. Another stomp. “Hear that? This model’s got a standard storage compartment, no? Garrett! Check this.”

The first panel is ripped away. Gear is riffled through. I have never felt so helpless in my life. Beside me, Bree reaches for the gun at her waist. The space is so tight, she has to draw it with her left hand and awkwardly pass it to her right. She switches off the safety, presses the barrel to the wood above our noses.

“Just spare rope and netting, sir,” the second inspector—Garrett—says. He sounds young.

“Fine. Close it up.”

The gear is thrown against the board separating our compartment from the dummy one. The top slams shut. A bit of dust floods our space.

And Clipper sneezes.

We all go rigid.

“Damn dust,” Garrett says, sniffling overhead. The floor creaks as he stands. “Well, aren’t you gonna say bless you?”

“Kid, you better watch your mouth with me. Get out of here.”

One set of boots leaves.

“This is the second time you’ve come into port on Daley’s rig in the last week. You got a thing for married men?”

“Just like being on the water, sir,” September answers.

A grunt. “I’m watching you.”

He leaves. I breathe a bit easier. But then September leaves, too, the sound of her boots following the footsteps that have already faded.


Confinement like this makes you lose track of time. What feels like hours pass, and we are still in the dark. The compartment seems to grow smaller with each inhale. The walls are collapsing. The air getting dirty, heavy, thick. Bree is pressed firmly against my right side, wood against my other. My legs are cramping. My back aches.

“I’m regretting those jokes about coffins,” Sammy says. When no one humors him, he adds, “Tough crowd.”

“Sammy,” Bree hisses, “I am miserable and cranky and uncomfortable. Do you really want to piss me off?”

Before he has a chance to answer, we hear footsteps returning. September. Finally.

The first panel is removed. The gear yanked up and cleared aside. Then, at long last, our ceiling is lifted away. I’m temporarily blinded. Everything seems large and my depth perception is off. When things make sense, I spot a face above us. Young and wide-eyed and frozen in fear as Bree brings her weapon to his forehead.