Benny took two last careful puffs off the short cigar before carefully grinding out the red ember on the stern railing. She watched as he placed the cooling stub into a plastic bag with several others. It was all she could do to stop herself from scoffing at him, how he so carefully disposed of a single cigar butt after flying halfway across the world in a hydrocarbon-spewing jumbo airliner. Why not just toss it into the sea? What would it matter?
“You should come to Thailand with me,” said Benny, clearing his throat as he inched towards her, the length of railing between them abruptly shrinking. “Have you ever been?”
Freya shook her head, the tiniest smile appearing on her lips for a moment. She realized with surprise that it wasn’t Cindi’s — it was hers.
“It’s beautiful,” he said with a faraway sigh. “White beaches, water so clear it just disappears. Five-hundred-year-old Buddhist temple ruins everywhere. We can wake up in the morning and do yoga on the sand. Eat seafood caught right in the shoals. Dive the reefs as the sun peaks. Spend nights dancing in the clubs. I’ve already booked a beach hut — there’s nothing like falling asleep to the sounds of the surf.”
She could tell he almost ended the pitch with just the two of us, but the words died in his mouth before he spoke, almost as if uttering them into the cold would have robbed them of all meaning.
“I’ll think about it,” said Freya, speaking for the first time. Would Cindi have said yes?
“It’s not just me. A bunch of us are going,” added Benny quickly. “I mean, why travel all the way out here and not tack on a little fun at the end? You got somebody you need to go running home to?”
“I said I’ll think about it,” said Freya, giving him the barest twitch at the corners of her mouth as she retreated from the railing. Pleased with the response, Benny smiled so wide that his face looked as though it’d split in two.
Freya stepped through a hatch and into the interior of the Stillson, taking in the familiar stained, off-white steel interior and ’70s-era wood paneling, eyes adjusting to the too-bright fluorescents flickering above. Her cabin was just a few doors down, not much more than two bunks, and a tiny, shared bathroom. She unzipped the sweatshirt and took off her tank top, stripping down to a pair of tight athletic leggings and a sports bra. It was impossible to get enough protein on the ship, but her rigorous exercise routine still held great benefit, the discipline keeping her darker urges in check.
Her slight Japanese roommate was perpetually— desperately — seasick, spending more time guzzling Gatorade and Dramamine in the research ship’s tiny infirmary than sleeping in her own bunk. The privacy of the de facto solo room was a welcome bonus, her unanticipated isolation circumventing the need for any unnecessary skulking throughout the crowded ship.
Freya was only halfway through her thirty-minute pushup routine when she noticed the blinking light in her half-open duffel bag. The satellite phone had been easy to bring aboard. It hadn’t even required an explanation. Cindi was a rich girl, and rich girls got rich-girl toys. She felt a flutter of anxiety, consciously forcing herself to slow her heartbeat before she pulled the phone from the duffle, pressed it to her ear, and accepted the call.
“Are you there?” spoke Himura with his soft, commanding voice. His intonation was like a warm blanket around her shoulders, filling her with purpose and resolve.
Freya pressed the star button on the keypad, listening to the faint tone as it disappeared across the airwaves.
“Can you speak?”
Freya used the star button twice and waited in silence for his next words. Though she was alone in her cabin, she didn’t want to take the chance of a sudden interruption.
“Take control of the bridge. Once inside, you must be prepared to hold the location for a minimum of ten minutes. Return this call when it’s done.” Freya started to finger the star button in acknowledgement, but it was too late — Himura had already disconnected.
Ten minutes. A lot could happen in that time — not near enough time to lure and lock the bridge crew out. She’d need to fight.
Freya slipped off her lightweight athletic shoes, exchanging them for the heavy leather work boots buried in the bottom of her duffle. They weren’t as broken-in as she would have preferred, but the high ankles, thick rubber lugs, and steel toe inserts offered other advantages. She tucked her feet into both and laced them up, tying the final knots high like a combat boot.
No sense in giving a potential adversary more to grab onto than absolutely necessary — she’d keep the sports bra and yoga pants only, there wouldn’t be enough time to get cold. Freya secured her thick blonde dreadlocks with a rubber band and then ransacked her roommate’s luggage with the other. The young Japanese woman was exceptionally well prepared for the expedition. She’d brought at least three times as much stuff as she’d ever conceivably use. Freya tore open the clear toiletries bag first, locating a pair of delicate grooming scissors she used to cut through a handful of her longest dreadlocks. She removed the oversized first aid kit next, binding her knuckles and wrists with thick white athletic tape. Last was the lotion — she would have preferred Vaseline or even coconut oil, but her roommate’s thick, long-lasting skin cream would work almost as well. Connecting the satellite phone to a wireless earpiece, Freya secured the bulky handset in the rear of her waistband.
Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus. Count to ten.
Freya scowled as she walked past the passenger lounge. Inside, a dozen graduate students exchanged a bottle of cheap rice wine, laughing as they watched an old American horror movie. A ghostly hand emerged from a mirror, reaching towards an unsuspecting woman as she slipped out of her clothes — the students shrieked and pointed, giggling as they clutched each other on the sagging couches.
Benny was in the center of the smallest couch, flanked by four of his friends from the same department. They stopped talking when they spotted her, smacking and hissing at each other until even the slowest among them stopped to stare openly in her direction. He’d no doubt told them about Thailand, how he was on the verge of bagging the ice queen, the cold bitch — she knew all the names they called her.
I’d let her kick my ass any day of the week, whispered one. Benny halfheartedly tried to shush him while still soaking in every moment of the self-congratulatory frat-boy camaraderie.
Freya eyed the knives from across the recreation room, barely visible behind the counter as they clung to the magnetic strip in the galley. She wanted to take one, but there were too many eyes watching her. It wasn’t just Benny and his boys, it was the girls now, too, their gazes dripping over her tight black yoga pants and sports bra, the sheen of lotion over her defined abdominals and muscled arms. Like she was some kind of freak for turning her body into what it was designed for. What did Himura call her? Yes — his perfect instrument, a form with unmistakable function.