Chapter 14 #2
He crept past a crate and sidestepped a drip from a pipe overhead, its leak forming a slow steady puddle. A rat bolted across the floor just ahead of him, vanishing under the rim of an open hatch.
He didn’t flinch. Rats had been his companions this whole trip.
He reached the panel and studied it.
A rust-flecked rectangle of steel, bolted in with flatheads no longer sat flush.
He crouched, wiped the sweat and grease from his fingers, and eased his makeshift screwdriver—a butter knife—into the groove.
Each twist made his wrist ache. The third screw stuck.
He worked it loose, breathing shallowly through his mouth.
This has to work.
He didn’t have a backup plan.
At last, the panel dropped open with a soft clink, revealing a nest of tangled wires and oxidized terminals.
He took out the scrap of wire he’d pre-stripped—tucked into his boot, already coiled with a loop on one end. His hands shook as he worked, fingernails blackened from days without washing. He slipped the loop over the main contact stud and braced the copper lead against the outer casing.
The whistle relay sparked once.
Then the ship let out a raw, teeth-rattling scream—a blast that vibrated the air around him, loud enough to make the ceiling rivets shake. It echoed up through the ducts, across the deck, and down again like thunder trapped in a steel drum.
He counted the beats of his pulse.
One. Two. Three.
Then he bridged the terminals again.
Second blast.
This time, the whistle almost howled—a higher-pitched, unsteady screech that frayed at the edges. Alex yanked the wire away, shoved it into his pocket, and slapped the panel back into place. It wouldn’t hold, but it didn’t matter.
He tore into a sprint as the deck above exploded into noise—clanging boots, shouted orders, the unmistakable panic of men thinking something was about to blow. Thudding steps moved toward the aft ladder well, just as he’d predicted.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.
Down the corridor, left at the junction. His shirt clung to his back, slick with sweat.
Skidding around a corner, he dropped into a crouch behind coiled ropes just in time to see the door to Ivy’s compartment open.
The light behind her cut a wedge into the corridor, spilling yellow across the floor. Her silhouette stood motionless, one hand still gripping the latch. Then she stepped into the dim corridor of the ship.
Alex rose silently and reached for her.
She gasped as he touched her, whirling toward him, her face written with fear. Then she relaxed as her grey eyes met his. A moment later, her arms were tight around his neck, and his heart squeezed so hard he felt it might burst.
Still, he peeled away from her. “We have to go.”
A deep echoing clang came from the engine room. A new flurry of boots pounded on metal. No time to waste.
He took her hand and pulled her gently but firmly down the corridor, toward the last turn that would take them to the open hatch at the galley chute.
“Stay low,” he murmured. “Keep left and watch for oil slicks.”
They moved quickly. Quietly. Just two shadows darting through the underbelly of a groaning steel beast.
He had to hope they’d be close to fully docked by now, otherwise they’d need to swim to shore.
The passage narrowed the closer they got to the aft galley. Here, the floor pitched more steeply with the curve of the hull. Alex guided Ivy with a hand to her back, careful not to rush. Her steps were unsteady. She wasn’t limping, but she seemed weak.
The whistle had gone silent now, but the aftermath echoed. Shouts rang out, unintelligible but urgent. They had to move faster—the sabotage might be discovered sooner rather than later.
Alex paused at the final turn, ducking behind a vertical steam pipe, and peeked down the next corridor.
The galley refuse hatch, just outside the scullery, taunted them.
Only steps away. Alex had spent the last two nights oiling it so it wouldn’t groan when opened.
There might be someone still in the scullery.
Just beside it, a battered canvas sack and a length of mooring rope coiled like a sleeping snake.
No one in sight, thankfully.
He turned toward Ivy. “You’ll have to climb through the chute to the outside. It’s tight. Hold onto the rope and climb down—if we’re lucky, we’ll be close to the dock. Otherwise, climb to the end of the rope and jump into the water.”
She nodded, her face anxious. Thank goodness she knew how to swim. His father had taught all three of them.
“Try not to fall. It’ll be about fifteen to twenty feet to the water.”
Her eyes widened with fear. “Fifteen …”
His palms grew clammy with the thought of that sort of fall, but he just nodded grimly instead.
“Will you be right behind me?” she asked.
“Of course.”
He crouched, pulled the refuse hatch open in two swift tugs, and warm midday air rushed in. It hit him like a slap, damp with salt, thick with diesel and port grime, but fresh in a way that nothing inside the ship had been—despite the smell of rotten food that clung to the rim of the hatch.
He peered through the hatch, stomach churning.
The ship had docked fully. Aft-facing port. Just above the dock.
Thank goodness.
The timing was better than he could have hoped.
He tossed the mooring rope through the chute and over the side, testing the anchor knot one last time where he’d looped it to a drainage pipe the night before.
It held.
“Go,” he said.
Ivy hesitated for a half-second—then dropped to her knees, swung her legs out, and started down the rope. Her knuckles were white as she gripped, clenching with her knees and feet, inching downward. Alex leaned in just enough to track her descent.
Just a few more feet.
Then she slipped out of his view.
He let out a held breath, grabbed the rope, and followed. If we make it out of this ship, I’m never sailing again.
Then he was out of the ship, the warm, salty air damp with humidity. Ivy dangled below him. She’d reached the end of the rope and clung to it as though unsure of what to do—it was still several more feet to the dock, and if she misjudged her jump, she’d land in the water.
“Push off the hull and jump onto the pier,” he hissed, looking down at her.
Her face was white. “I can’t!”
“Dammit, Ivy, this isn’t the time for fear!”
She nodded, trembling, then let go with a scream.
Her feet hit the dock. Thank God.
His boots scraped the hull, rope swaying as he steadied himself against the ship, the iron warm under his palms from the engine heat. He didn’t look down, just kept his eyes on the rope.
Then a shout rang out above—sharp and angry.
Ivy’s scream had attracted attention.
A gunshot tore into the air, a bullet whizzing past him.
Alex gasped, looking up to see someone leaning over the rail. They’d been spotted but they weren’t shooting at Ivy—they were shooting at him.
Alex slid the last few feet, rope burning his palms, then jumped, landing in a crouch. His knees jarred as Ivy reached for him.
“They’re coming,” she said.
He didn’t have time to look—just grabbed her hand and ran.
The dock was cluttered with cargo, wooden crates, canvas bundles, coils of netting, and rust-streaked barrels. Between two stacks of crates, he spotted an opening—a narrow alley between dock warehouses.
If they could get off the quay, they could disappear into the chaos of the port.
They ducked into the shadows and didn’t look back.