Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Frankie
T he luggage handle nearly slips from my sweaty grasp as I step onto the gangplank and board the cruise ship. This ship once bore the name Ice Princess Lenore, as it was commonly used in Alaskan cruises. Now she’s been refurbished and renamed to the Bruise Cruise.
My nerves kick into high gear as I haul a bag containing a gun and handcuffs—among other things—onto a ship full of criminals and killers. No matter what happens, however, my focus must remain on Jim.
And not getting caught.
I glide into the atrium between a row of staff on either side of me.
They clap their hands and smile as I make my grand entrance.
Something looks a bit off about them, though.
The smiles are too fake, and I don’t mean the fake, sugary-sweet shit that normal cruise staff offer.
These people look like they’re the killers.
Is that the game? Are the staff the actual killers and the unwitting guests are their victims?
I keep my eyes wide open as I look around the spacious entry.
It’s your typical atrium, with grandiosity in every direction.
The parquet floors gleam as sunlight pours through a wall of glass.
A grand chandelier hangs above everything like some illuminated goddess.
Luxury furniture in shades of pale blues and silvers dot the expensive paisley rugs.
An elderly couple stands beside one of the couches.
The wiry man’s gray hair pokes out around his head, and despite being on a cruise in Florida, he’s wearing a gray suit.
The woman, on the other hand, is dressed more casually.
Her khaki shorts and loud Hawaiian shirt scream tourist. These people don’t look like killers at all.
But then again, they rarely do. That’s how they get away with it.
I approach the couple and offer them a smile, choosing to give my attention to the woman. Women find other women less intimidating when they steer their gaze away from the man they possess. It’s basic psychology.
“It’s a nice day for a cruise. Where have you two flown in from?” I ask.
The woman looks up at me and says nothing.
“I’m down from Ohio,” I offer, hoping she’ll open up if I do. Even though my cover story is a complete lie. “I just got out of a bad breakup and figured an adults-only cruise was just the way to break out of my shell again.”
The woman turns away from me, grabs the man’s hand, and looks into his eyes.
The man nods, then looks at me. “We are sorry for your breakup. Please do not speak to us again.”
With that, the pair turns and meanders toward the other end of the room, where they continue standing around. Serial killers are typically charismatic, which is how they disarm their victims. I can definitely scratch these two off the list.
A man approaches from my left. He’s tall, well-muscled, and a pair of black frames perch on his nose. There’s something hauntingly familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Excuse me,” he says in the smoothest British accent I’ve ever heard. “The staff at the front are new, and it appears they forgot to remind you about your wristband. It’s very important that everyone wears them while on the ship.”
“Oh, right!” I lower my bag and dig around in a side pocket until I find the purple wristband. As I fasten the silicone strip around my arm, I realize it locks in place and can’t be removed. “Do I have to wear this for the entire cruise?”
He checks my band, then smiles. “Yes. My name is Ezra Carter, and if you’ll just come with me...” He turns and begins to walk away.
Gripping my bags once more, I follow the strange man further into the ship. His name doesn’t ring any alarm bells, but I still keep my wits about me as we travel down a brightly lit hallway and end up at an elevator.
“Hold your band against the sensor.” He motions toward the metal plate where the call buttons usually are. The plate is smooth and devoid of any buttons, depressions, or features at all.
I step forward and press my band to the metal, and a bell dings overhead. Seconds later, the elevator doors swing open.
“You’re a VIP. To travel to the less accessible areas of the ship, you’ll need that band.” The man—Ezra—steps inside the elevator, then motions for me to join him. Once I do, he leans forward and taps a button.
“Where are we headed?” I ask.
Ezra pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels, but he says nothing.
My stomach lurches as the elevator comes to a stop and spits us out in another hallway. The lights here are much dimmer, and the whites and silvers have been traded for dark woods and moody metals.
A bald man with a massive mustache wanders toward us. When he sees the man beside me, he smiles and raises his hand in a wave. When he sees me, he stops in his tracks and licks his lips.
“You got dibs on this one too?” the man asks.
Ezra shakes his head. “No, Ice. Kindra is the only one to lay claim to my heart, but that doesn’t mean you can sexually harass every beautiful woman who joins our court. Have you tried masturbation?”
“I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you.” I hold my hand toward him and offer a smile, then snatch back my hand when Ezra’s question registers.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve used my real name.
My birth certificate, social security card, and driver’s license all say something different.
I’m actually less discoverable if I use my biologic information.
Plus, it’s easier to remember. You can’t fuck up the truth, right?
As the bald man steps closer and takes my hand, I realize I’ve already forgotten his name. “On shanty, I’m sure,” he says as he kisses my fingers.
“That’s enchanté , you nit,” Ezra says. “Follow me, Frankie, and I’ll show you to your room.”
The bald man looks so dejected as Ezra plucks my hand from his and leads me down yet another hallway. I’m liable to get lost on this ship, what with all its twists, turns, and secret elevators.
My heart picks up speed as he stops in front of a cherry-stained door. He directs me to use my wristband on the door panel, so I do, and the door’s lock clicks open.
I step inside and look around. The room is large—far larger than any cruise I’ve ever been on—and one massive white bed takes up a good chunk of the space.
“Do I have a presidential suite all to myself?” I ask as I turn to Ezra, but he’s already gone. I step toward the doorway and look into the hall, but he’s no longer anywhere. I hurry to close the door before the strange man with the mustache sneaks inside. Ice...something.
When I place my bag on the bed, I spy an envelope on the pillow. I snatch up the rectangular slip of paper and rip it open.
Welcome to the Bruise Cruise!
Please dress in the provided attire in your closet and meet in the lounge (Deck C) at six p.m. sharp. If you do not attend, you will be removed from the ship before we sail tonight.
Accessories and refreshments will be provided. Please only bring yourselves.
I hurry to the closet and rip it open. Inside, two black garment bags hang from a rod. The name Maverick has been written across the tag on the first bag. I guess that’s my roommate, though I don’t know how I feel about rooming with a strange man who may also be a serial killer.
Not to mention sharing a fucking bed with him.
The second garment bag belongs to me, so I pull it from the rack and carry it to the bed. After unzipping the bag, I reveal what I can only describe as a shiny silver hazmat suit, complete with a military-grade gas mask.
“What in the world . . . ?”
I pull the silver material from the bag and study the strange getup.
This clearly wasn’t manufactured by any official installation.
None of the contractors we use would be caught dead crafting suits made from such a flashy material.
And are those fucking rhinestones around the mask’s blackened eye holes?
“At least it looks like it’ll fit,” I say as I hold the suit against my body. Now if I can just figure out why we’re forced to dress like this.
I check my watch. It’s late afternoon, so I have a little time to kill before I need to stuff myself into the mylar costume. Snooping around the ship would be a mistake, however. I know too little, and I’m more likely to fuck something up.
So I do the only thing I can. I sit on the bed and wait for my roomie to arrive.