Page 5 of Wayward (Wrecked #4)

Cartographer

Dante

“ Y ou could move your giant head, Green.”

“I could, but why would I?” He doesn’t move.

I can hear Haley. It’s okay to sometimes count in your head before you say something that might not be the best thing. Fuck it. “Because you’re being a selfish prick.”

“Not helpful, Dante.” Zane stands and leans flush with the wall. He’s been going over the wall to see if he can find a camera. “This is helpful.” He points to a seam in the wall.

“There?” Calvin asks. His huge head leaves the glass, and he makes his way to the wall where Zane is looking.

Sam looks up from where he’s not reading a ten-year-old paperback novel on the sofa. “Here too.” His index finger points to the seam on the sofa.

I plop down next to him and place my hand over the seam, feeling around until my fingernail catches a small metal button, maybe a centimeter wide. It’s not a button, though. The seam’s open. That’s got to be one heck of a view.

Calvin thunders over to where I have the one on the sofa under my hand. I lift my palm, and he places his hand on top of it. “Fuck.”

“Small, just like you.” I hold his blue eyes, and he shakes his head.

“Fuck you, Chef.”

“No, thank you. Did you see anything out there?”

“No.”

“They lifted the anchor a while ago,” Sam says. “We’re sailing soon.” The engines are running.

We all feel it, even me. But none of us have said anything about it. It’s not something any of us want to think about, leaving here without Haley ― or even Swimmer Boy.

“They’ll be here soon.” Zane goes back to combing the wall. I don’t see any point. One camera, two, three, or five thousand. They all mean that anything we talk about is something that Z will know about.

“Let’s pass the time. Take off your shirt.” I glare up at Calvin.

“Fuck no,” Calvin says.

“Just do it. Lie down on the bed, face-down.”

“No.”

“You do it, Zane.”

“I’m not gonna.” Zane crosses his arms in front of his chest and leans against the small device in the wall.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not sexual. Just lie down. And the two of you twats gather around.”

“Dante?” Sam says.

Working for the Russian, I learned not to trust anyone.

That’s been something I’ve had to unlearn this year.

Trusting and being trusted. Worrying about someone other than myself.

Other than my sister and her kids, my mom, I don’t care for anyone.

Yeah, that’s been a lot. Z’s taken a page from the Russian.

There’s nothing in this room we could write with, nothing to make a weapon out of. Well, I suppose give Calvin enough time and he’ll figure out how to take apart the bed frame and whittle some kind of weapon. But that’s the thing with guys like Z. Time is theirs, not yours.

“We haven’t had a proper bed in forever. I’m going to show you the muscle groups to give a proper massage.” I say it with enough confidence that I almost believe it myself when it’s utter bullshit.

Zane drops onto the bed. “I like it a hell of a lot more when Haley does this.”

Sam and Calvin are hanging back.

“Get closer, you fuckers.” I drag a finger down Zane’s spine. “This is the spine. These are the ribs.” I write an H with my index finger on Zane’s back.

“I know that.” Calvin looks at me like I’ve lost my head.

And I draw the H again. “Do you?”

“Haha,” Zane says with annoyance. He’s clearly gotten the idea of what I’m doing.

I turn to Sam, who hasn’t come that close to the bed, and hold his eyes as I do it again. I flash my eyes as I do it.

“Haha,” Zane says again.

The blinds go up in Sam’s eyes, and he sits on the side of the bed. Shielding one side of Zane from any cameras.

Calvin wrinkles his forehead.

“You’re the anthropologist, Calvin. What muscle is this?” Sam writes H-O, and I move closer, leaning over Zane, keeping the view of his back from two more sides.

“Right, that’s Latissimus Dorsi.” Calvin covers the other side, leaning over Zane’s legs.

Sam’s writing speeds over Zane’s back now. How do you know Z wants ―

Calvin moves Sam’s hand. “This is the Trapezius.” Heard him on phone with dad ― who wants us dead . “This is the Iliocostalis Lumborum. I think. It’s been a long time.”

How , I write back.

Cat ran back deck. He no see me. I hope. Calvin looks up at me and over to Sam.

“Are you understanding the muscle groups, Zane?” Sam asks.

“Enough to pass a test that we’re all going to fail.” Zane turns his head on the pillow. “But I do have a question about the muscle groups on my chest.”

“Ah, yeah. Those are important.” Sam moves back, letting Zane flip.

“Like, what are these here?” Zane writes. How keep Haley safe?

And the door opens.

It’s the old guard, Durant, the one who pushed the punk off the boat. “What the hell are you doing?” You know what? I don’t fucking care. Just get up. Z’s back, and he wants to see you.”

Zane grabs his shirt, and we’re out the door and into the corridor.

I don’t gawk at boats. I’ve been on all kinds of yachts.

New ones that you have to peel the plastic off the appliances, old ones that you have to scrape years of grease out of from chefs that had no idea how to keep a galley clean.

And I don’t give a shit. Because a new yacht can be a piece of shit, just as well as an old one ― the Rock Candy as an example.

Though we’ve got enough evidence that proves the mishap on the Rock Candy wasn’t the mechanics of the ship’s fault.

More like the elder Z’s fault. But damn, the Rosewood is fine.

And it pisses me off that I’m even thinking about it.

I’d like to see the galley . . . but what I’d really like to see is a lot of us not on it.

Back in Miami, maybe catching a gourmet meal at the food trucks at the beach.

Or just sleeping in a soft, huge bed. Air- conditioning, a stocked fridge, sleeping in safety ― that’s what I want.

Haley tucked away. Fuck the galley of the Rosewood.

A guard drops in behind Calvin, who’s behind me. Zane’s in front of me, following Durant. We take a turn and go down a level. So far, I’ve only been on the top level and this one, where our cabin is.

“In you go,” Durant says, pointing with his beefy fingers, his other hand resting on top of his compact assault rifle.

It’s the same type my old boss used to have his guys use.

Though he wasn’t nearly as well organized as old Z, and I’m thinking Z’s got more money behind him. Things are top end. Everywhere.

The walls of the room are polished ochre honey mahogany ― floor to ceiling. Overhead lights fill the porthole-less room, which must have been designed as a media center. But this one is decked out like a weird boardroom. Ten tall-backed leather desk chairs surround a long black table.

“Have a seat,” Durant says and leaves the room.

“Where do you think Easton and Haley are?” Zane asks, no trace of his normal smile around.

Sam puts his hand on Zane’s shoulder and pulls out one of the leather chairs on wheels. He sits and motions for us to sit too.

But I’ve got other things I want to do. At the head of the table there’s an intercom, and next to the intercom, there’s a stack of small notepads and pens.

With the guards outside, I take two of each, slipping a notepad and pen into my pocket.

I sit across from Sam. Zane’s next to him.

I draw a bird, then a house. When I look up, I realize that Sam and Zane are studying what I’m doing. “Just drawing.”

“Oh.” Zane’s shoulders drop. He takes one, and his pen strokes are different from mine.

Assured, a real house appears compared to the one on my page.

Mine looks like a preschooler drew it. But that’s fine.

I push a notepad to Sam, but then pull it back and split it in two.

If they don’t know how many were here, perhaps they won’t miss the one I took.

“What are you drawing?” Sam asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Not you. Zane.”

I shrug but glance up. On the second page of Zane’s notepad, he’s drawn the blueprint of the Rosewood ― or the little we know about it. Haley’s seen more than the four of us.

He’s sketched out five decks. Sam taps the paper. “Six.”

Zane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“It’s modified.”

Zane’s pen moves across the page. He lifts the pen every so often, filling things in with a lighter line that are guesses.

I have no idea if it’s going to help us, but fuck, we have to try.

We’re at it long enough to fill in the whole diagram.

There’s no way they’re going to let us keep it.

No way they’re not watching us as we do it. But we finish the whole thing.

Calvin’s finger slides across the page. “Cat room, boiler, engines, lounge.”

We’re done after a few minutes, and we’re studying the schematics. But what's the point? There are too many men, too much firepower. These aren’t a bunch of unorganized pirates. They are a highly trained killing force.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes, calming my system.

In a way, being locked in a porthole-less room is more soothing.

I don’t have to fight the Viking for window access to see if Sassy is on her way back to the boat.

I’m more on edge than ever. And there’s no surprise to me.

Being on the ship reminds me too much of how I hated working for the Russian.

The door opens, and I jump up.

Holloway’s there. But no Sassy or Easton. “Sit down,” the beefy guard says.

Kennedy is behind him, wheeling a cart with covered dishes. “Lunch.” He places the plates in front of the four of us.

“Where’s Haley and Easton?”

Kennedy nods at us, his eyes flashing at our little art projects around the table. He doesn’t take them. “Enjoy.” He pulls the door closed with a firm click.

The food isn’t bad, but it’s not good either. Boring. Lacking imagination and zest. But maybe their chef is as eager to get away from Z as I was to get away from the Russian.

With the plates stacked, the table shakes with the bounce of Zane’s leg. “You good?” I ask.

“No. I want to see Haley. Easton too.” He pushes back from the table and bangs on the side of the door with his fist. “I need to use the loo.” His accent is ten times as strong as normal.

The door opens. “Can you wait?” Holloway asks.

“Do you have a bucket?”

“I’ll take that as a no. Fine. Let’s go.” Holloway takes Zane, and the door shuts with a click.

“Fuck.” Calvin stands and paces.

“Sit down, Green. We need to keep our shit together.”

“We need a plan.” Calvin paces behind me.

“We need to keep quiet.” Sam points above my head. And he’s right. There’s a speck about the same size as the one we found in our cabin, behind me on the wall.

“I’m fucking done with being quiet,” Calvin yells, and the door slams open.