Page 16 of Anchor

But I can’t handle all the rest so I tuck it in a box and stow it deep, deep inside my mind until the time comes when I can take it out and freak out properly.

Like never.

There was a part of me that hoped this guy was an irate employee using scare tactics in revenge of some corporate slight, but not anymore. The level of cold rage evident in the harsh downturn of his mouth speaks to a vendetta more personal than job termination.

Which doesn’t bode well for me—or the other passengers.

Back toward shore, I can see the faint flashing lights from the emergency response, but the more we travel in the other direction, the farther away they—and safety—feel.

The man talks to the other passengers over the PA system again, but a low beeping sound distracts me from whatever threats or demands he’s making of them. I have to search the desk with all the displays for a while before I find the source of the sound. There are screens and monitors for everything, most of which I can’t even understand.

The monitor beeping seems to show our current depth. It reminds me of one my grandpa used to have on his boat when we went fishing. It would show if there were any fish or obstructions beneath us. There must be something beneath us, near our tail end.

I only wish I were fishing instead of taken hostage.

There’s a rope dangling off the end that must have been the remnants of the rescue attempt, which reminds me of the man. I shake my head of those thoughts.

But the odd thing is the rope is still swaying like there’s something attached to it. Which has to be the wind.

“I’m sorry about that,” I hear the man saying over the intercom. “Now I don’t want any of you to get hurt, and you won’t as long as you follow my directions.”

I hope he knows none of us are fooled by his attempts to be friendly with us. We all know his promises are a crock. We’re a means to an end to him. Something to bargain for his demands.

As he continues, reminding them about the rules: stay on the boat, don’t fight him, I study the little bit of rope still rocking from side to side. There’s something odd about it I can’t put my finger on.

Then I realize: it’s not swaying with the boat. It’s going in the opposite direction.

There’s something on the other end.

My thoughts are assailed with gruesome images of body parts hanging from the other side and I have to close my eyes and think about all my happy memories to blot them out.

Sienna, my family, my apartment. God, my life seems so boring in comparison, but now I fear I may never get back to it, I want nothing more than to live sixty years of boring.

Once I have control of my thoughts, I open my eyes and find a pair staring right back at me. I have to blink multiple times to make sure it’s not a terrible waking nightmare. Then I realize I’m not imagining things. There’s a man hanging from the rope.

People mention emotion or relief bringing them to their knees, but I’ve never understood the expression until the moment our eyes lock.

I can’t discern much about him through the shadows and dark clothing, but he’s here. He’s going to help us. That’s all I can think about.

He’s here to help us.

A sound escapes my throat, and our captor stops in the middle of his speech to look sideways at me with raised brows. I cover the sound with a garbled cry and turn away from him, hoping he mistakes my gasp of surprise for choked tears.

Smooth, Chloe.Get the guy killed before he’s even on the ferry.

I study the darkness in front of me as I pretend to get a leash on my emotions. The man goes back to his speech and a few seconds later, I risk a glance to the back of the boat.

He’s not there and for a second I wonder if I conjured him from a petrified place in my head. Then I see a wet trail leading from the back to my right side. He climbed up while the man was distracted looking at me.

I don’t want to draw more attention to him, so I stare without seeing at the space in front of me. My spine is ramrod straight, my vision is blurry and my eyes sting from the strain.

The man’s finished his tirade and his steps come close, though I don’t want to turn to look at him for fear my expression will betray my thoughts. I’ve never been very good at lying. He hands me the radio and I cringe inwardly when our hands graze.

“Use this,” he says. “Radio the Coast Guard, whoever, I don’t care. Tell them you want to speak to whoever is in charge of emergency operations. Then tell them the only person I will speak with is Gabriel Rossi.”

Then he leaves with nothing else by way of an explanation. I guess the gun prevents him from having to explain himself.

I know nothing about radios, so I flip the switch from the PA system and tune to the first channel they have listed for emergencies.