She walked to the teakettle on a nearby table, suspiciously glancing over her shoulder. The grad students were distracted by the movie again, the horror heroine having changed into highly impractical lingerie as she investigated a haunted mansion by candlelight.
Grabbing a knife was still too obvious, leaving Freya to quietly fill the top of the now-boiling kettle with leftover olive oil from dinner. She waited until it was scalding before carefully filling a thick mug and pouring the rest down the drain just before it started to smoke.
Focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Count to ten.
Freya left with cup in hand, breathing slowly in and out as she ascended the main stairs towards the bridge. The pushups had driven fresh, hot blood to her arms and hands. She shook out her shoulders and ankles to keep her muscles warm and fluid.
The bridge ran nearly the width of the thirty-four foot beam, large windows reaching from waist-level consoles and chart tables to the low ceiling above. With the sole exception of a single flat-screen, the bulk of the instruments dated to the mid-’70s. Freya felt she was stepping back in time. The short, barrel-chested American captain stood before the helm, hand resting gently on the simple steering lever, throttle set to a leisurely eight-knot cruising speed. He touched the lever out of habit alone. Freya knew the autopilot took the bulk of the helmsman’s duties, the computer gently adjusting the Stillson’s seaborne course as she plied the rolling swells.
Two officers flanked the captain. Freya noted with satisfaction that the larger of the two was the coverall-clad chief engineer, a tall, lanky man with thinning hair and crumpled earplugs slung around his neck, his permanently oil-stained fingers tapping absentmindedly on the nearby chart table. Good — dealing with him on the bridge would significantly lessen the chances that the remaining crew could contest her control of the ship from the engine compartment. The only other man on deck was the ship’s Japanese first officer, a quiet, jowly man who only rarely lifted his heavy eyes from other people’s shoes.
The view from the large windows was impressive, made all the more so by the dim interior lighting. A crescent moon rippled like silver over the rolling ocean as the research vessel rose and fell through the waves, cresting each one in turn with a sudden gush of white spray over the distant bow.
“Whud’ya need?” grunted the captain, barely nodding in her direction as he kept his eyes towards the distant moonlit horizon.
Freya just closed her eyes. Focus. She visualized the moments to come in her mind — the first blow, the second, the look in their eyes when they realized something had gone very wrong. Her hand trembled for a moment, the scalding oil rippling as beads of sweat collected between her fingertips and the surface of the searing ceramic mug. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus.
“Seriously?” said the captain, scratching his white beard in irritation at her lack of response. He swiveled to address her face-on. If Freya had been a normal passenger, she would have felt a flood of anxious energy wash over her as he prepared to dress her down. But she wasn’t a normal passenger.
Three seconds. Focus.
“This area is not for students. I’m going to need to talk to Harold about this—” began the captain.
He never finished.
Freya hurled the entire mug of olive oil into his face, soaking him with the near-boiling liquid. A scream erupted from his lips in a pitch too high for a man as his fingernails already dug into the red, sloughing skin around his eyes. Freya turned, took aim, and flung the empty mug directly into the tall engineer’s face, hearing his nose crack as the cup bounced off his face and hit the ceiling before shattering to pieces on the linoleum floor.
Yes — this approach was better. A knife was obvious, recognizable, reactionary. The oil gained her a minimum two-second advantage, maybe even double that. Even so, she would have preferred a blade, something to brandish, a last-ditch backup if nothing else. The Japanese first officer rushed her with unexpected speed, grabbing at her arm. His grip slid right off her slick skin, giving Freya the split-second opportunity to bury her fist into the side of his jaw. He dropped hard, sliding across the floor before slamming headfirst into a map cabinet. The captain was screaming louder now, shaking uncontrollably as he held his blistering, ruined face. She turned just in time to see the engineer drag himself off the floor which gave her time to plant one, two, three steel-toed kicks to the side of his head. Freya cocked a fourth kick with her boot, silently daring him to move.
Without warning, pain erupted across her back like she’d been smacked with a baseball bat, her shoulder blade and right arm instantly numb from the tooth-rattling impact. She whipped around to see the Japanese first officer—he didn’t stay down, goddamn it—brandishing an oversize Maglite like a club. His mistake.
“You should have crushed my skull when you had the chance,” she said as she grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet as he struggled in her grip, flailing ineffectually with his flashlight. She hurled him against the wall. Off-balance, his already-broken jaw dangerously exposed, she jammed one vicious elbow after another into his face. The heavy light tumbled from his grasp and rolled across the rocking bridge deck as he slumped to the floor for the final time, bleeding and unconscious.
Freya cracked her neck and massaged the back of her injured shoulder, trying to will feeling back into her still-tingling right arm. The blow to the scapula had hurt, goddamn it, more than she cared to admit. Her mistake: underestimating the short, lethargic first mate.
Focus. Breathe in. breathe out. Release the pain.
The door behind her creaked opened. Freya twisted around, hands already up, fists balled and ready to strike. The captain had slipped into shock behind her, silence falling over the bridge deck once more.
“Cindi…?” sputtered Benny, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared at her in abject horror. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window; face blood-flecked and snarled, teeth gritted, glistening skin rippling as she breathed hard and fast. Freya took a running start towards Benny before he could utter another word. She leapt forward and slammed him in the chest with both booted feet. Benny flew backwards, losing an unlaced shoe as he tumbled through the air, his thick red ski jacket a blur in an uncontrolled free fall. He was halfway down the stairs before he landed, outstretched wrist catching the edge of a step as he snapped down like a cracked whip, collarbone taking the brunt of the impact. Screams erupted from the lounge below as Freya closed her eyes and latched the door with quivering, adrenaline-fueled fingers.
Steadying herself, Freya activated the earpiece and dialed Himura’s number. The phone clicked and beeped, slowly making the connection as she locked and barricaded the remaining doors. She inadvertently jumped a little as the bridge’s still-charging hand radios erupted with static and frantic voices begging for help, begging for information. The doorknob to the interior door abruptly moved. Fortunately, the lock held as the rattling increased and the voices took on a desperate, violent pitch.
The call went through. She didn’t need to hear his voice to feel him on the other end. His calm, gentle presence pulling the jittery energy from her body, centering her, focusing her, and preparing her for what was to come.
“Is it done?” His soothing voice was barely audible over the distant connection.