Ms. Hatch crept up closer to one of the portholes. “She’s a park employee,” the woman said. “That means she’s one of them.”
Mr. Larue scoffed. “I’m a park employee,” he said. “Not all of us are part of this.”
“She looks the part,” the woman said. “If you know what I mean.”
Ronnie raised the shotgun, but glared sideways at the bony woman. “Because she has dark skin? You need to keep a lid on your trash, calaca.” Literally, skeleton. “I’ll shoot who I have to shoot. Killing isn’t quite as simple as you make it sound.”
The woman ruffled like an angry hen. “Well, dear, you seem to know a great deal about it.”
Outside, the young woman walked past the porthole with tentative steps. She approached the door with her hands in the air, looking back and forth as if afraid she might be shot. Garcia felt a sinking feeling burble through her gut, but reminded herself of the boy who was helping Quinn.
Garcia nodded to Camille, then glanced toward the porthole. “Do me a favor and keep a watch for more bad guys.”
“Roger that,” Camille said, sounding like her husband.
Garcia turned, moving to put the rest of the group behind her. The threshold of the door was made of metal, likely the best cover on the entire ship. She cocked a hip out to steady herself against the frame, allowing her to peek out at the approaching woman without making herself too much of a target. Some might have felt overly exposed, dressed in nothing but the tight yellow bathing suit, but Garcia had gotten over such a notion a long time ago. She knew how to use her body — and the temporary lapse in judgment it caused — to gain the upper hand.
The tactic worked most of the time, but when she stepped into the doorway holding the shotgun, the young woman who approached the ship seemed to look right past her. When Ronnie called out in challenge, she realized that what she had perceived as fear was actually anger.
“Stop right there!” Ronnie gave a whispered hiss. “Let me see your hands.”
The young woman dipped her head submissively. She was close enough that a blast from the shotgun would cut her in half, but she hardly seemed to notice it. Apparently oblivious to the gun, she shot furtive glances over her shoulders, then back at Garcia.
Garcia raised her head, giving the girl a jaundiced look, and kept the shotgun trained at her belly.
“What’s your name?” Garcia said.
“Fadila,” the young woman said. “Please, I am frightened.” She cast another look over her shoulder. Ronnie couldn’t tell if she was afraid or waiting for backup.
“Please,” the girl asked again. “May I come inside?”
Garcia didn’t budge from her spot by the door. “You work here?” she asked.
Fadila nodded. “I know the people who have done this,” she said, her voice breathy. “They are killing everyone. I only just managed to get away.” She leaned forward. “Whichever of you shot that one out there certainly saved my life.”
Garcia took a step back, holding the shotgun up with one hand and motioning the girl inside with a flick of her wrist. “Get in before someone else sees us,” she said.
Fadila let out a long sigh. Her shoulders dropped. “Thank you,” she said, stopping just inside the door.
She stood up straighter as she surveyed the crowded interior of the ship before looking directly back at Garcia. “There are so many of you,” she said, as a dark smile spread across her face. “It is good.” Her eyes crawled up and down Garcia, appearing to see her for the first time. “Are you not ashamed?” The words came out on a hateful whisper that caused the tiny hairs on the back of Garcia’s neck to stand on end. “How can you walk around dressed like that?”
Garcia took a half step back, but it was too late.
Fadila didn’t seem to care if she lived or died, stepping directly across the muzzle of the shotgun. Ronnie’s finger searched for the trigger and fired, but the blast went over the girl’s shoulder, missing her by a hair, and doing nothing but deafening everyone inside the ship with the concussive boom. Throwing herself at Garcia, Fadila grabbed the shotgun by the end of the barrel and thinnest part of the stock, just behind the trigger guard, attempting to wrench it away. Ronnie held tight, but Fadila brought her knee up in a vicious series of rapid kicks, slamming into Garcia’s groin. Garcia doubled over, feeling as if her pelvis had been broken in two. She clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth from the pain and gulping back wave after wave of overwhelming nausea.
Women screamed and children began to howl at the sudden violence. Garcia heard the muffled cries of several men shouting for Fadila to stop her attack. But no one stepped in to help — no one but for Camille Thibodaux.
The fiery brunette crashed in as if she was protecting her own child. She hit both women with such force it knocked them to the ground and sent the shotgun flying against the ship wall with a plastic thud.
Both arms pushed up over her head, writhing on her back, Garcia tucked her knees to her chest and bucked her hips, keeping herself from being crushed but unable to get Fadila off her. Past injuries to her shoulders at the hands of a madman made the angle impossible to escape. She could feel the hard imprint of a gun against her knees, tucked under the young woman’s shirt.
Ronnie outweighed Fadila by at least forty pounds, and bum shoulders notwithstanding, she was plenty strong enough to hold on to the girl’s hands, putting the two women in a sort of stalemate — each holding the other, Ronnie unable to wrench free because of her shoulder, Fadila unable to reach her pistol.
“You killed my friend!” Fadila hissed. Her lips pulled back as she gnashed her teeth. Spittle flew from her lips and she threw herself back and forth, craning her neck and trying to bite Garcia in the arm and hands.
Garcia was strong, but she knew she couldn’t hold on forever. Beginning to worry, she searched desperately to locate Camille. The rough concrete floor scraped her neck and shoulders. Tresses of black hair puddled around her face, adding to the darkness. A glimmer of hope hit her when she saw Camille had the shotgun.
Fadila screamed like a crazy woman, redoubling her efforts to tear her hands free. Instead of trying to escape, Garcia held what she had and let her legs separate around the woman’s back, wrapping muscular thighs around her waist. Hooking her ankles together, she did her best to squeeze the life out of her attacker.
Camille raised the shotgun to her shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” she yelled over a screeching Fadila.
“Shoot her!” Garcia snapped, bearing down with her thighs. She was pretty sure she felt a floating rib snap, but the enraged woman refused to let up.
“I can’t,” Camille all but screamed. She stepped to the side, then back again, all the while keeping the shotgun trained on the two women. “You’re moving around too much! I’m afraid I’ll hit you!”
“Just shoot!” Garcia said, grunting from exertion and the weight of the other woman. “She’s got a pistol in h—”
Fadila gnashed out again, nearly biting a chunk out of Garcia’s wrist. A moment later she relaxed. She looked down at Garcia, and a gloating smile spread over her face — as if she’d already won. A small metal pin hung from a silver ring between her clenched teeth. Still on her back, Garcia let her head fall to the side, looking up at the young woman’s right hand to find it held a green metal egg. Garcia recognized it immediately as a Russian grenade. Her grip on Fadila’s smaller hand was the only thing that kept the spoon in place — and the grenade from going off.
Garcia tried to scream. “Camille, wait!” But Fadila came up on her toes, pressing her weight against Garcia’s chest. Her words came out as a breathy moan. Garcia knew she might survive a piece of buckshot or two, but even a slight wound might cause her to lose her grip. If the grenade fell away, it would kill or maim everyone within twenty meters.