Page 9 of Ship Happens
But we’re about to find out.
Chapter Five
Frankie
The purple wristband indicates a Sinner, which is code for a serial killer. The kind British man, the little elderly couple, and my handsome roommate all sport those purple bands, and I can’t rationalize any of that in my brain.
Nothing feels right about this. That’s what I keep thinking as I walk behind Maverick. I expected to be uncomfortable around these people. I expected my sixth sense to ping off the charts in the presence of serial killers. The reality is much different.
Maverick stops in front of the elevator and swipes his wristband over the metal plate. The elevator doors swish open soon after. We step inside, and he leans forward to press the button with a large glowing C in its center. My stomach lurches as the elevator car drops.
“So, what’s your killer name?” Maverick asks. The gas mask muffles his words, making him difficult to understand. “I’m the Midnight Masochist.”
“I’m the Fisher,” I say with a little too much confidence.
Maverick’s gas mask turns toward me. “The Fisherman?”
Drat. I’ve been alone with this man for less than an hour, and I’ve already made a misstep. I really need to be more careful. “Yes, the Fisherman. That’s what I said. The mask...muffled it.”
He shifts his weight between his feet and clears his throat, but he doesn’t pry any further. Thank fuck. I had to memorize my cover story on the flight to Miami, and I made sure I picked the most obscure killer I could find. The online resources were few and far between, and something’s wrong with the Wi-Fi on the ship, so I’m running on memory.
Thankfully, I don’t need to utilize the Fisherman’s MO. Our inside source explained that many of these killers choose to explore other avenues of murder while they’re at the retreat. I can only hope I won’t have to use any methods of violence at all. Despite being a government agent, killing isn’t really in my wheelhouse. I’m not inclined to start now.
The elevator stops, and the doors open once more. We step into another dark hallway, and I’m beginning to see a trend. Silvers, whites, and other bright colors fill the areas for the average guests, and darker woods and moodier colors suffuse the serial killers’ spaces. The strong visual differences make it much easier to discern what’s what, and it definitely feels like two different worlds on the same ship.
Maverick looks around, but he seems to know as much as I do. No one else lingers in the hallway, and no signs point us in the direction of the lounge. Despite being thin, the hoods attached to our suits muffle all sound. If there’s some sort of party going on nearby, I can’t hear it.
A flash of silver emerges from a door behind Maverick, and I tap his shoulder and point that way. He gives me a thumbs-up, and we head toward the other figure. Noticing us, the person waves and motions us toward the door.
Maverick begins talking with the stranger as we draw closer. They seem to know each other, which is all well and good for them, but I just want to see what’s in the next room.
I mentally kick myself for not grabbing any of my gear before this first major event. My button cameras would have come in handy, and my service pistol would have put me more at ease. Though, I’m not sure how at ease one can be when you’re trapped at sea on a ship filled with murderers.
As the men talk, I push open the door and step into the lounge. The name is apt, as the space looks like a stereotypical upscale jazz lounge. A small stage faces a cluster of tables, many of which already have silver-clad bodies seated in their chairs.
I step into the sea of tables and realize there are name placards at each setting. Ezra, Kindra, Cat, and Bennett are seated together, whoever they are. I only recognize the British man’s name. After wandering through the rows, I finally find my name at the central table, right in front of the stage. And then I realize why I’m in such an important position in the room.
I’ll be seated at a table with Jim Madigan.
Maverick and someone named Aven will also be seated with us, but it doesn’t matter. This setup puts me directly inside Jim’s circle, and that’s all I need. An opening.
I slide into my chair and tap my gloved nails on the table as I look around the room. More silver figures fill the space with each passing second, and after a few minutes, nearly every table is fully occupied. I do some quick math in my head and determine there are roughly thirty killers seated in this room. The group is larger than King and Castle anticipated, but not me.
When I first heard about these retreats, I figured that?—
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
I turn my head and face the source of the twangy Southern voice. “Oh, I think the seats are assigned, but you’re welcome to hang out until the rest of my table arrives.” I offer the mana smile he can’t see, but I have to go through the motions. It’s more convincing this way.
“We switch seats all the time at these things. I take it you’re new? My name’s Ice P... I think we met in the hall.” His suit muffles the end of his name as he reaches across the table and grips Jim’s name card, clearly intending to swap it for his own.
I lean forward and swat his hand without thinking. It’s an instinctual reaction to the panic swirling through my guts. “Sorry, but I’d prefer to follow the host’s intended seating arrangements. Being new, I’d hate to ruffle feathers. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m being too pushy again, ain’t I?” He raises his hands to his gas mask and covers his “eyes” with his gloves. “I really suck at flirting. No matter what I do, women don’t like me.”
“Well, my rejection has nothing to do with you,” I say. “In my line of work, relationships are sort of frowned upon, so I steer clear of flirtations. Maybe you’re just picking the wrong sort of women.”
“What do you mean?” He drops into Maverick’s seat and leans forward, clearly enraptured by the topic at hand. “I don’t reallypickanything. It happens with all women. Skin color, body type, personality—I’m not picky at all.”
