Isela groaned and tried to roll over, but her body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle ached. Her throat felt raw, like she had swallowed sandpaper.
She forced her eyes open.
She wasn't in the brig. She wasn't in the morgue.
She was in a bed the size of a small island. The sheets were black silk, cool and slippery against her skin.
Memory returned in jagged shards. The needle. The fire in her veins. The cold water. The man.
The man.
Isela sat up sharply. The room spun.
She looked down at herself. She was wearing a men's dress shirt. Black silk, matching the sheets. It was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the dark bruise on her arm where the needle had jammed during the struggle.
She touched her neck. It was tender.
She scrambled out of bed. Her legs wobbled, but they held.
"Hello?" she called out.
Silence.
She was in a suite that screamed power. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the ocean, but the heavy velvet curtains were drawn, letting in only slivers of brutal daylight.
She needed to leave. Now.
She ran to the closet. It was a walk-in, larger than her cabin. Rows of bespoke suits. No women's clothes.
She found a pair of drawstring sweatpants on a shelf and pulled them on under the shirt. They were too long, bunching at her ankles.
She didn't care. She ran barefoot to the heavy double doors.
She grabbed the handle, expecting it to be locked. To her shock, it turned. The heavy door swung open.
She hesitated. Why wasn't she locked in? She looked up at the ceiling. A small, dark dome of a camera blinked red in the corner. He wasn't keeping her in with locks; he was keeping her in with surveillance. He was watching. He was letting her run.
"Fine," she whispered. "Watch me leave."
Isela sprinted for the elevator. She pressed the button for the Crew Deck. She needed to get to the comms room. She needed to call the embassy.
The elevator descended smoothly.
There was a TV screen embedded in the mirror wall of the elevator car. It was playing the ship's internal news channel.
Isela froze.
Her face was on the screen.
It was her ID photo from the hospital credentials. Beneath it, in bold red letters: WANTED FOR MURDER: DR. ISELA CHURCH.
The news anchor's voice was smooth, professional, and damning.
"...suspected of administering a lethal dose of a controlled substance to a foreign dignitary. Dr. Church is considered armed and dangerous. The ship's management has authorized a total debt forgiveness bounty. Anyone providing information leading to her capture will have their entire gambling debt erased, plus a cash reward of five million dollars."
Isela slumped against the elevator wall.
Five million dollars. And debt forgiveness. On a ship full of desperate gamblers, ruined souls, and debt-ridden staff, that wasn't a bounty. It was a declaration of war. Every single person on this ship would hunt her down for a clean slate.
The elevator chimed. Deck C. The Bilge.
The doors opened.
Two cleaning staff were standing there with a cart. They looked up.
Isela tried to turn, to hide her face, but it was too late.
The taller one, a man with a scar on his lip, widened his eyes. He looked at the screen in the elevator, then back at her.
Greed, instant and ugly, transformed his face.
He reached for the radio on his belt.
"Don't," Isela whispered.
"Security!" the man shouted into the radio. "Deck C elevator! I got her! I got the doctor!"
Isela shoved past them. She knocked the cleaning cart over to create an obstacle and ran.
"Hey!" the man yelled, chasing after her.
The alarm started to blare. A low, whooping siren that vibrated in her teeth.
Isela ran through the labyrinth of the service corridors. The air here was hot, smelling of diesel and grease.
She turned a corner and skidded to a halt.
Two men in black tactical gear stood at the end of the hall. They weren't ship security. They held submachine guns.
She spun around.
The cleaning staff and three more security guards blocked the other end.
She was trapped.
Isela backed up until her spine hit a steam pipe. She looked left, right. No doors. No vents.
The men in black gear advanced slowly. They didn't look like they wanted the reward. They looked like they wanted to erase a problem.
"Dr. Church," one of them said. His accent was thick. H-Nation intelligence. "Please. Do not make us damage the merchandise."
---
