“What are you doing dressed in—” he begins, and I react on instinct. I knee him straight between the legs, and when he bends and howls in pain, I kick his shin, shove him inside his door, and slam the door shut.
I run. I run for the emergency exit, the pounding of footsteps following me. They may not know it’s me, but they heard him scream, and they’re on alert for danger.
I run with everything I’ve got, straight toward the vibrant orange emergency exit. I yank open the door, ignoring the shouts behind me. Below us, water churns but Lila was right. It isn’t the angry churning at full speed, but the gentler speed as we come closer to shore. It’s enough time and distance, though, that I can escape before they’ll ever dock this ship. It’s the time to jump. Any other time, and the force of the water on impact could kill me.
My heart in my throat, I take a deep breath, and I jump. The water’s icy cold on impact, and I surface quickly, already pumping my arms and legs for the shore. Adrenaline pumping, I swim as fast as I possibly can. I’m soaked to the bone and my limbs feel heavy, but a lightness pervades my being.
I’m free.
Free.Chapter 10CyWearing the stolen uniform too long is a stupid ass idea, so on day two, I find a huge, crowded Walmart, and pay cash for new clothes and shades. I quickly adapt a disguise and pick myself up some cheap but filling food.
It was in Walmart I discovered our true location. We weren’t, thank God, at Fort George in the Caymans, far away from the continental U.S., but in West Palm beach, just north of Miami.
I need to find Finley Morose. For all I know, I’m a wanted man. Or maybe I don’t even exist anymore? I need to find access to the internet, and I need to search well. At a rest stop three days in, I see a bored-looking teen with his cell phone in hand, tapping his foot while his mom hollers to him from the fast food area.
“Come help me carry this!” she says. He rolls his eyes and tosses the phone on the bench, then gets to his feet to go to her. I tell myself he doesn’t deserve the phone anyway, for rolling his eyes at his mother.
I walk by his table, still looking ahead, palm the phone and shove it into my pocket, then step quickly into the bathroom.
Perfect. He only just used it, so it’s still unlocked. I blink at the foreign thing. I haven’t seen a phone like this before, and the realization hits me in the gut. I’ve been stranded on an island while technology burst into life like an overgrown garden of wildflowers.
What else have I missed in my absence? The world has gone on without me, as if I didn’t matter at all.
I shake my head, still hidden in the stall, and swipe to the search bar. That much I can figure out, anyway.
FINLEY MOROSE.
The image of an older man with snow white hair comes onto the screen in front of me, his too-thin lips pulled back in a chilling grin, calculating eyes cold and gray. I’m filled with an immediate, fiery hatred that consumes me so much, I realize I’m gripping the phone so tightly I’m white-knuckled. If what I’ve been told is true, this is the man. The man behind the curtain. The one calling the shots.
The man who ruined my life.
But more importantly?
The man who kidnapped Harper.
Her life was stripped from her. She was nearly raped, left to die on an island with savage men… including me. And this man, this one is responsible for it all.
Why?
Fucking why?
I could sit here for hours, taking all this in, reading the stories and details, but I’m on a mission.
Save Harper.
The only way I can do that is by locating Morose. It has to be my first step. But before I leave, I look up one more thing. My hands fucking shaking, I type in my name.
Cy Kaufman.
I watch as article after article pops up on my screen.
M.I.A.
They have me listed as gone, into the military unknown with the catch-all “missing in action.” It’s what I expected, but it still hits me hard to think of that. No one would really miss me. Hell, it’s probably exactly why Morose made me one of the targets.
I’m going to find Morose. I’m going to find answers. I’m going to find Harper.
I drive until my vision blurs, ducking onto back roads to avoid notice of the police. I briefly contemplate asking the police for assistance, but how would they believe me? According to the internet, I’m gone.
I arrive in Boston at six a.m. three days after I escaped, bone tired and exhausted beyond belief. I drove until I couldn’t see straight, pulled into a rest stop, ditched the car, and hot-wired another car. Then another. Then another. Carjacking like I’m fucking chain smoking.