This was Luc’s ship. The Señora Muerte. It was at least twice the size of Marin’s, and felt profoundly sturdier as it surfed through the waves. But what it made up in structure, it lacked in comfort, because standing at the helm was Luc, his black shirt billowing around him in bright contrast to the white deck.
Marin.
Where was she? He recalled with gut-wrenching clarity the sight of the other men crowding around her and kicking her on the ground. How badly had she been hurt? Was she still alive?
And where was Adam? Ross hoped he had not been left in the trash fields. The thought of them being close, and then torn apart again, burned a red-hot rage through his veins.
His gaze fixed on the black radio, like the one that he’d seen on the Armament ship, nestled into the steering console beside the GPS. Luc’s hand rested on it absently, fingers tapping against the black case.
If Ross could get to it somehow, he might be able to call for help. Luc would probably kill him for trying, but he’d already promised to do that anyway.
“Where are we going?” Ross’s jaw ached as he spoke.
Luc had been looking out over the water, but at the sound of Ross’s voice spun to face his prisoner.
“He lives!” Luc said victoriously, as if he had played some part in that.
At this, Ross heard movement from behind. Japan was working the ropes, as was Red on his other side. He couldn’t see anyone else, though that didn’t mean they weren’t below deck.
His senses sharpened, and he pulled his knees toward his chest, trying to get his feet beneath him.
“What’d you do with her?” Ross said through his teeth.
“My sister?” Luc laughed, then sobered suddenly. “Have to say, I was surprised at her dedication. To a terreno, no less.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “She’s dead now.”
Ross’s stomach plummeted.
“It’s a shame,” Luc said. “Had she not been so smart, I would have given her to my crew. You’ve seen Careytown. Pretty girls are few and far between.”
The horror ignited within him, and every muscle flexed at once, pulling against the cuffs that bound him to the mast. A terrible growl ripped from his throat, drawing back his lips. There were no thoughts, just a hissing in his ears and a red veil over his eyes.
“You’re angry.” Luc rounded the steering console, ducked under the boom, and crouched beside Ross. From his hip pocket, he withdrew a small glass cylinder filled with a sloshing black liquid, and uncorked it.
A familiar, heady scent clouded Ross’s mind before the salty breeze could clear it away. His body fell slack, as if he could no longer control his own muscles. Blinking, he shook his head, feeling the dizziness resolve into a steady pounding between his temples.
“That’s better,” Luc said. “Now, there’s someone I need you to meet, and I need you to hold yourself together when that happens, can you do that?”
Ross blinked, feeling every inch of his face as it stretched. His mind was fuzzy, but he had the sense to turn away.
He killed Marin.
The thought of it had him pulling at his wrists again, but his arms felt heavy, and his eyelids could barely stay up.
“You look pained, young Mr. Torres,” said Luc. “Just a dip of your finger, rubbed along the gums. It’ll take all your worries away.”
Ross shook his head.
“It’s called tar.” Luc leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to share. It’s just boiled trash. Boiled and boiled and boiled. The men at home, they swear it’s magic, but they’re eating the very mierda they step in. I discovered it years ago when I fell into a boca. I landed in a pocket just beneath the surface, hanging from this net anchored aboveground. In this little cave, the sun had baked the trash until the fumes were nearly toxic.” His mouth twisted into a grin. “When I finally climbed my way out, I swore I could fly.” He cackled. “I’ve been making it ever since.”
“Get back,” managed Ross. Vaguely, he recalled Luc emerging from the shack on the edge of the trash field, the one Marin had told him to steer clear of due to the armed guard outside. The thought of people ingesting the things he’d seen in that field made his stomach turn.
Luc corked the bottle, and laughed at Ross’s expression.
“I’ve disgusted you,” the pirate said. “Finally we are even.”
* * *
They sailed into the night, and through it, still moving when dawn bruised the morning sky. Ross drifted in and out, becoming desensitized to the movements of Japan and Red, who worked the boat through the night while Luc slept. At first he thought they would give him trouble, but both men largely ignored him. Twice, they brought him water and food, and when Luc awoke, Ross’s arms were freed, and he was permitted to go to the bathroom.
When he was done, Luc presented him with fresh clothes, a bucket of water, and a cloth, and told him to make himself presentable.
The strength he’d found thinking of Marin had been carved from his chest, but as many times as he replayed Luc’s words, Ross could not picture her dead. It didn’t feel like it had before, after the riots when the despair had hollowed him out. But then, she’d been alive, so maybe this was what her actual death felt like. Like impossibility. Like hope, that she was somewhere, just as Adam was somewhere.
He was brought below deck, past two closed doors, and into a narrow room lined floor to ceiling with three layers of bunk beds. In the glass of the portal window, he caught his reflection. The simple black shirt was a little small, and ripped around the collar, but otherwise dry. The pants were the color of the red-brown mud puddles in Careytown, and came to a frayed end around his exposed calves. He moved closer to the glass, gently prodding his dry, flaking lips, and the salt from the sea that had left white wrinkles from squinting around his eyes. A bruise still stood swollen on one jaw, and his hair was a windblown tangle. Even his shoulders, which had once been permanently drawn back, slumped forward with the weight of these past few days.
He barely recognized himself.
How different he’d once thought he was from the Shorelings, and yet here he was, indistinguishable from them.
He wondered if this was what Adam had felt, coming to the political district. What his life had been like before that move. It seemed impossible that he knew so little about his best friend before they had met. Impossible, and yet unsurprising.
Because Ross had never asked.
If they made it out of this, he would.
The door, which had been left ajar, was pushed open by Japan, who scowled at his new wardrobe. As he stared back, Ross felt his anger burn to wariness.
Luc was standing in the threshold of a room on the opposite side of the hall. Behind him, Ross saw what looked to be an old silver safe with chains crisscrossed on the ground below it. In his hands he held a deep metal tray, and in it he was placing glass jars of the thick, black liquid.
He did not look up at his task, and as Ross watched him, he could feel his time running out.
“I know you want me dead.” The words sucked all the air from Ross’s lungs. Japan grabbed his shoulder, but he didn’t fight.
“I know you hate what the mainlanders have done to your people, and you have every right to. But if you really want justice, you should keep me alive.”
Luc finally looked up, a smirk pulling at the stubble on his sharp jaw.
“Killing me is just going to prove what they think about you. That you’re the same traitor your grandfather was.”
Luc returned to loading his jars into the tray.
“So let them think that,” he said. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”
“No,” said Ross. “But that doesn’t scare them. Pirates are supposed to murder. Shorelings are supposed to riot. What scares the people above the cliffline is believing that they’re just as bad as everyone else—just as bad as you. We’ve built ourselves up to be better.”
“Oh, but you’re not,” said Luc, pausing again.
“
I know,” said Ross, thinking of how Tersley had raised his gun in that shop in the docks. How his father had made it all go away. How Ross had gone to the riots in the first place—for fun.
“We’ll fix anything so we can sleep at night,” he said.
Luc stretched his neck from side to side. “Now that is the truest thing you’ve said yet, Mr. Torres.” He stood, framed in the doorway, his arms crossed. “I assume you have a point.”
“Expose Pacifica. Tell the truth about relocation. The entire nation believes it’s a tropical island. Tell them where their government is really sending the Shorelings. Tell them about the Eighty-Six.”
“Ah, I see.” Luc’s head tilted back, and he scratched his suntanned neck. “And why would anyone believe me? I’m the same traitor my grandfather was.”
“Because I’ll stand beside you,” said Ross. “I’m the president’s son. The whole nation will listen if I’m on your side.”
“It would destroy your dear old dad.”
Ross nodded. It would, but it would protect the Shorelings, and keep him alive long enough for the authorities to arrest Luc.
“And what of the oil beneath the docks?”
Ross hesitated, unsure of Luc’s meaning.
“Come on, terreno,” said Luc, the name not nearly as comforting coming from his mouth. “You didn’t think it was all about erosion, did you? They’re moving out the Shorelings for the same reason you clear out the rats. Because they eat your food and get in the way.”
The corners of Ross’s mouth tightened. No, he had suspected there was more hidden from his view as soon as he’d realized his father was lying about Adam. A part of him had wondered after the attack on the Armament station if the prisoners were being sent away just to stop the violence. Still, if there was oil in the docks, someone would have known. There was no need to relocate the Shorelings; even if they were directly over it, they could have found another way. They could have told them the truth, to start. Those people needed jobs, didn’t they? Mining oil could have revitalized the area, just like Noah Baker was always talking about.
He thought of the steward who’d escorted him below deck on the Armament ship. The oil rigs were being converted to bases because the oil was drying up. The Alliance was running out of fuel. Imminently. Alternative energies weren’t dependable, his father had told the SAF leader that.
“Oil under the docks will just add fuel to the fire,” he said, hiding his surprise. “If it’s the reason why the Shorelings are being relocated, the people will be furious. They’ll look to you as their champion—the one who uncovered all the secrets. You’ll be famous.”
Luc gave a slow smile.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Torres,” said Luc. “My sweet sister must have rubbed off on you. You’ve got some fire left after all. Sorry to say it won’t save you now, but the effort’s appreciated all the same.”
At the mention of Marin, Ross’s resolve broke again, and the terror and fury and panic he’d managed to hold at bay ripped through him. Luc wasn’t going to listen—he didn’t care about anything but his own greed and vengeance. He spoke only one language, and it involved fists and blood and pain. But before Ross could speak it, something cool and hard pressed against his side, and his eyes lowered to find the barrel of Japan’s gun.
“Let’s go,” said Japan.
“You’re making a mistake,” Ross shouted as he was ushered up the stairs. “This will destroy your people.”
With the sounds of Luc’s laughter echoing in his ears, Ross was shoved up the steps, toward the bow of the ship, where his hands were re-bound, this time before him. Red came to assist, but it wasn’t necessary. Ross had stopped struggling.
His eyes were locked ahead, on an offshore oil rig like the Armament station where he and Marin had been attacked. As they drew closer, it became apparent that this one was older, or hadn’t been attended to in some time. The beams that rose from the water were a twisted mix of black and red rust, and half of the upper deck had fallen into the water, leaving it completely detached in the middle. Sharp arms of metal jutted out in all directions from the wreckage, most of them longer than the Señora. The entire thing looked like it might fall at any moment.
Docked against one of the legs was a small ship with navy blue sails. It was neat, clean, and looked like something the Armament might sail. He knew better, though; the military boats had white sails bearing the Alliance’s emblem. This was similar, but not quite right.
A tremor of excitement shook through him. Was this his father? Had he been told to meet them here? A second later, his elation came crashing down. If his father were here, Luc would be determined to make good on his promise to Ross in Careytown.
He had limited time left.
“Here we are!” called Luc, coming up from below deck with a patched cloth sack, crossed over one shoulder. The bottles within clicked together as he carefully adjusted the strap. Ross remembered what a single sniff of one had done; he could hardly imagine what consuming that much would do to a person.
Instantly, he became more alert, searching the sailors around him for signs of what might come. They all seemed focused on the ship, and for one dark moment Ross considered what might happen if he jumped overboard and ended this before it began. He could save himself a little pain, maybe, but drowning wouldn’t be an easy way to go.
Icy resolve frosted over his fear. He could not jump now. If he ended it this way, there would be no chance to rectify his father’s mistakes, no chance to tell anyone that relocation was a myth, and that the Shorelings were about to be betrayed.
It might not matter anyway. Luc could kill him before he could warn anyone. His father might go through with the relocation plans anyway. He even considered that Marin’s brother might kill his father, which sent waves of terror cascading through him. Whatever wrongs he had or had not done, George Torres was his dad, the man who’d raised him, and his death would rock the nation.
The boat slowed, and eased beneath the tarnished structure. The two sailors with Luc didn’t need direction. While they anchored their ship to the massive metal column, Luc climbed down the ladder hooked around the rear of the boat onto the grated landing, where he was met by two men in suits, not unlike those Tersley or the other security had worn at home.
His father had come. And for one foolish moment he was the same boy he’d been in his youth, waiting outside a track meet for a secured car to pull in, so sure this would be the time he would show up.
“Dad!” Ross shouted, before he’d thought it through.
Red hit him hard in the side, and Ross fell to his knees, sputtering out a cough. When he looked up again, all three men had disappeared below deck of the smaller boat.
“Quiet,” Red hissed. And then he gagged Ross with a rag Japan handed him.
They waited for long minutes, the only sound the waves against the side of the Señora. Time stretched infinitely onward, taunting Ross, holding his very life in its hands. Dusk had come, the orange sky offering little warning of how dark this night would soon become.
Finally, Luc emerged, and waved to the crew onboard.
Without a word, Red and Japan ushered Ross over the ledge and down the ladder to where Luc waited. His hands were sweating, his grip slick on the metal rungs as he lowered to the grate. It bobbed under his feet, but he stayed upright.
His gaze darted to the other boat, then skittered across the gray sea. His throat worked to swallow, but couldn’t. He tried to speak the words screaming in his head—you don’t have to do this—but the gag in his mouth wouldn’t allow it.
Luc’s head beaded with sweat, his dark hair matted down against his scalp. When Ross jerked away from his hold on his cuffs, he sighed, and patted the knife handle on his belt.
“Let’s not be a hero,” said Luc.
Ross turned, every single fiber of his body joining for one purpose: to hate the man before him. The sweat slid down between his shoulder blades. If Marin was dead, he wanted Luc to pay for it.
Luc led him toward the boat, and shoved him up the ladder. He moved too slowly, it seemed, because one of the armed men he’d seen earlier leaned over the edge and hauled Ross up.
He searched the man’s face for some sign that this was part of a plan. They were trying to get him on the boat, separate him from Luc, and then get as far away from the pirate as possible. It seemed strange, now that he thought about it, that so few people would be here. Was this part of Luc’s demands? It made sense that the pirate would arrange for his father to arrive without his usual security entourage, but that didn’t mean his father would do it. He was the president of the North American Alliance. Surely there was more security waiting somewhere near. Maybe even in the wreckage of the oil rig overhead.
He might get out of this after all.
But as he was ushered below deck, the men in mainlander suits only acknowledged his presence with a nod. When Luc followed, they didn’t arrest him, or even approach him. They cleared the way, so that Ross could pass by, uninterrupted. Telling himself this was all part of a larger plan, he descended the steps below deck, to an open area with plush chairs, topped with pillows, and a U-shaped bar that emerged from the far wall.
A woman wearing simple white pants and a red tunic stood facing the opposite way, one hand resting on the glass jars atop the counter. She was stocky, and short, with auburn hair pulled back in a neat bun at the base of her neck. When Ross’s boots touched the plush carpet floor, she turned, and the finger she’d been rubbing along her gums jerked down to her side.
It took less than a second for Ross to recognize her, but it was clear that she did not place him with the same ease. Her gaze traveled down his chest, stopping at his handcuffs, and she gave an impatient sigh.
“Mr. Carey, the tar is quite enough. This is unnecessary and, frankly, inappropriate.”
Roan Teller, the leader of the public safety commission, was standing before him, consorting with pirates and trying to conceal the fact that she’d just been taking a taste of boiled garbage.