Page 17 of Anchor (First to Fight)

“Hello?” I tuck my shoulders in and pray my voice won’t crack. If the media gets ahold of this conversation or if a whole room of people is listening, I don’t want them to know how terrified I am. My heart is thundering so loud in my ears I can barely hear the static from the radio, but I press on. “This is the Jacksonville to Rockaway Island Ferry. I-Is anyone there?”

They must have been monitoring the channels because a firm voice responds seconds later. “ROF, this is Sheriff Stevens with the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. Who am I speaking to?”

Thoughts bounce around in my brain like dueling ping-pong balls and it takes a moment for me to pluck my name from the jumble. “T-this is Chloe McKinney.”

“Hi, Chloe. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I have to press the meat of my palms into my eyes to focus. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

“How about everyone else on board? Are there any injuries?”

“T-there was a man who-he—” my voice breaks off. A bubble inflates in my chest, choking the rest of the words.

“The explosion,” Sheriff Stevens supplies after a few seconds, his voice gentler. “Was anyone hurt?”

I set my jaw and plant my feet as my breathing slows. “One. I don’t believe anyone else is hurt.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on now? Is there one man, or more?”

“One man, but he’s heavily armed. He’s…he’s put an explosive collar on all of us.” Its weight is a constant reminder of its presence. One I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is tinny from the small speakers. “Can you say that again?”

I glance backward to make sure the man hasn’t come up the stairs behind me and then hunch over the radio now cupped in both my hands. “He has each one of us strapped with explosives. If we get off the boat, like that man did, he sets it off. If we try to hurt him, he sets it off.”

He curses under his breath. It’s so slight, I don’t think he knows I can hear it, but with my ears straining, it’s hard for me to miss. “Has he made any demands?”

My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips and I wish for a glass of ice-cold water. “Just that he wants to speak to someone named Gabriel Rossi.”

There’s a pregnant pause. “I’m sorry, say again?”

I raise my voice and hope the man below can’t hear me. “Gabriel Rossi.” I hope he can’t hear the frantic sound of my breathing over the line. “That’s all he said.”

“Is he there?” In the background people are yelling and Stevens quiets them with a sharp whistle. “Can you put him on to speak with our negotiators?”

I shake my head before I remember he can’t see me. “He said he doesn’t want to speak to anyone but Mr. Rossi.”

The thud of a boot against steps causes my heart to leap into my throat, so I say the next part in a rush. “Tell your man who just came on board to be careful. This guy is completely serious.”

“What did you say?” I hear from the radio as the gunman’s head appears at the stairs.

Gabriel

The hostagesdown below are huddled together in small groups, head’s bowed and arms wrapped around each other. They take no notice when I climb up the back along the rope and peer around the railing. They’re too busy listening to the man with the radio dictating rules.

But the woman at the wheel isn’t.

On one glance toward the front and her pale, over-wrought face finds mine. Her mouth gapes open and her wide eyes flicker toward the man brandishing a gun.

I don’t move—I can’t. Any quick movements might draw the eyes of any hostage and throw down a storm of unneeded and unnecessary attention. I’ve already lost one life today; I don’t want to risk any more. She looks away for a second and I heft myself up the rest of the way and duck behind the first car.

Aches and pains make themselves known as I crouch behind an old beat up truck with chipped red paint, but push those to the back of my mind.

All of my gear sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I’m unarmed and I’m surrounded by who knows how many explosives ready to go off at the whim of a psychopath.

I’d like to chance looking in each of the cars for a through-and-through American with a glove box stuffed with a semi-automatic, but each one I try is locked.

Threads of conversation carry over the air. From a rough count, I estimate a couple dozen hostages on this floor. Maybe a captain and an attendant up top, plus my girl and their captor.