Isela groaned and tried to roll over, but her body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle ached. Her throat felt raw, like she had swallowed sandpaper.

She forced her eyes open.

She wasn't in the brig. She wasn't in the morgue.

She was in a bed the size of a small island. The sheets were black silk, cool and slippery against her skin.

Memory returned in jagged shards. The needle. The fire in her veins. The cold water. The man.

The man.

Isela sat up sharply. The room spun.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a men's dress shirt. Black silk, matching the sheets. It was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the dark bruise on her arm where the needle had jammed during the struggle.

She touched her neck. It was tender.

She scrambled out of bed. Her legs wobbled, but they held.

"Hello?" she called out.

Silence.

She was in a suite that screamed power. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the ocean, but the heavy velvet curtains were drawn, letting in only slivers of brutal daylight.

She needed to leave. Now.

She ran to the closet. It was a walk-in, larger than her cabin. Rows of bespoke suits. No women's clothes.

She found a pair of drawstring sweatpants on a shelf and pulled them on under the shirt. They were too long, bunching at her ankles.

She didn't care. She ran barefoot to the heavy double doors.

She grabbed the handle, expecting it to be locked. To her shock, it turned. The heavy door swung open.

She hesitated. Why wasn't she locked in? She looked up at the ceiling. A small, dark dome of a camera blinked red in the corner. He wasn't keeping her in with locks; he was keeping her in with surveillance. He was watching. He was letting her run.

"Fine," she whispered. "Watch me leave."

Isela sprinted for the elevator. She pressed the button for the Crew Deck. She needed to get to the comms room. She needed to call the embassy.

The elevator descended smoothly.

There was a TV screen embedded in the mirror wall of the elevator car. It was playing the ship's internal news channel.

Isela froze.

Her face was on the screen.

It was her ID photo from the hospital credentials. Beneath it, in bold red letters: WANTED FOR MURDER: DR. ISELA CHURCH.

The news anchor's voice was smooth, professional, and damning.

"...suspected of administering a lethal dose of a controlled substance to a foreign dignitary. Dr. Church is considered armed and dangerous. The ship's management has authorized a total debt forgiveness bounty. Anyone providing information leading to her capture will have their entire gambling debt erased, plus a cash reward of five million dollars."

Isela slumped against the elevator wall.

Five million dollars. And debt forgiveness. On a ship full of desperate gamblers, ruined souls, and debt-ridden staff, that wasn't a bounty. It was a declaration of war. Every single person on this ship would hunt her down for a clean slate.

The elevator chimed. Deck C. The Bilge.

The doors opened.

Two cleaning staff were standing there with a cart. They looked up.

Isela tried to turn, to hide her face, but it was too late.

The taller one, a man with a scar on his lip, widened his eyes. He looked at the screen in the elevator, then back at her.

Greed, instant and ugly, transformed his face.

He reached for the radio on his belt.

"Don't," Isela whispered.

"Security!" the man shouted into the radio. "Deck C elevator! I got her! I got the doctor!"

Isela shoved past them. She knocked the cleaning cart over to create an obstacle and ran.

"Hey!" the man yelled, chasing after her.

The alarm started to blare. A low, whooping siren that vibrated in her teeth.

Isela ran through the labyrinth of the service corridors. The air here was hot, smelling of diesel and grease.

She turned a corner and skidded to a halt.

Two men in black tactical gear stood at the end of the hall. They weren't ship security. They held submachine guns.

She spun around.

The cleaning staff and three more security guards blocked the other end.

She was trapped.

Isela backed up until her spine hit a steam pipe. She looked left, right. No doors. No vents.

The men in black gear advanced slowly. They didn't look like they wanted the reward. They looked like they wanted to erase a problem.

"Dr. Church," one of them said. His accent was thick. H-Nation intelligence. "Please. Do not make us damage the merchandise."

---

The H-Nation agent didn't tackle her. He swept her legs out from under her with a swift kick. Isela hit the metal grating hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a wheeze.

Before she could inhale, a knee was pressed into her lower back.

"Secure," the agent said into his headset.

Cold steel ratcheted around her wrists. Handcuffs. Tight.

"Hey! I saw her first!" the cleaning man yelled, waving his radio. "The reward is mine!"

The agent stood up, hauling Isela up by the handcuffs. Her shoulders screamed in protest. He looked at the cleaner and shoved him aside with one hand.

"This is state business. Get lost."

He didn't wait for a reply. He pulled a black hood from his belt and shoved it over Isela's head.

The world vanished into suffocating darkness.

"Walk," the agent commanded.

Isela stumbled. She couldn't see her feet. She scraped her toes on the bulkheads, banged her shoulder against doorframes. Every stumble was met with a rough jerk on the chains.

They walked for what felt like miles. Up stairs. Through noisy engine rooms. Then, the air changed.

The humidity dropped. The smell of diesel was replaced by the salty, fresh scent of the open ocean.

They were outside.

The hood was ripped off.

Isela blinked, tears streaming from her eyes as the harsh sunlight assaulted her.

She was on the forward helipad deck.

A helicopter was already spinning its rotors, the noise deafening.

But they didn't take her to the chopper immediately.

A table had been set up under a large white umbrella near the edge of the deck. A man sat there, dining.

He was cutting into a steak that was so rare, blood pooled on the white china.

Jairo Brady.

Isela recognized him instantly. The arms dealer. The man who owned half the politicians in the hemisphere. The man Clinton Collier did business with.

Jairo chewed slowly, then swallowed. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked at Isela.

"So," Jairo said, his voice carrying over the rotor wash. "This is the little hand that stopped my clock."

The agent shoved Isela forward. She fell to her knees on the non-slip deck surface.

"Target secured, Mr. Brady. Ready for transport to the black site."

Jairo stood up. He walked over to Isela. He was wearing a white linen suit that looked pristine against the grey backdrop of the ocean.

He used the toe of his Italian loafer to lift her chin.

"You cost me a lot of money, Doctor," Jairo said. "Agent Best had a code in his head. A code I needed. Now he's dead, and the code died with him."

"I didn't kill him," Isela shouted over the wind. "It was a setup! Mrs. Best-"

Jairo kicked her.

It was a casual, dismissive kick to the ribs, but it knocked the air out of her. Isela curled up on the deck, gasping.

"I don't care about your soap opera," Jairo spat. "You're going to come with us. And my surgeons are going to take you apart until we find out exactly what he told you before he died."

"He told me nothing!"

"We'll see." Jairo waved his hand. "Load her up."

Two agents grabbed her arms. They dragged her toward the helicopter. The downdraft whipped her hair into her face. Isela dug her heels in, but it was useless.

She looked around desperately. The deck was full of Jairo's men.

Then, the glass doors to the pool deck slid open.

The motion was smooth, silent.

Clinton Collier stepped out.

He was wearing a white casual suit, no tie, holding a rolled-up magazine. He looked like he was stepping out for a morning coffee, not walking into a kidnapping.

He paused, looking at the helicopter, then at Jairo.

The agents holding Isela hesitated. The presence of Clinton Collier had a gravity to it.

Clinton walked past Isela without looking at her. He went to Jairo's table, picked up the wine bottle, and inspected the label.

"Jairo," Clinton said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise. "You're landing military aircraft on my ship without filing a flight plan. That's rude."

Jairo stiffened. "This is a rendition, Clinton. It doesn't concern you. She killed a protected asset."

Clinton put the bottle down. He turned slowly.

His eyes landed on Isela.

He looked at her bruised face, the oversized men's shirt she was wearing-his shirt-and the handcuffs.

Isela stared back. She saw no pity in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating assessment.

"She's my employee," Clinton said.

"She's a murderer," Jairo countered, his hand hovering near the gun inside his jacket.

"She," Clinton said, taking a step toward Isela, "is on my manifest. And nobody leaves The Leviathan unless I say they leave."

---

"I'll make it worth your while," Jairo said, lowering his voice. "Give her to me, and my ports in the South are tax-free for your fleet. Permanently."

Isela stopped breathing.

It was a fortune. Millions of dollars a year. For one disposable doctor.

Clinton tilted his head. He seemed to be considering it. He looked at Isela again, his gaze lingering on her neck where he had bitten her.

"Please," Isela gasped. She dragged herself forward on her knees. "Mr. Collier... last night... you know..."

She tried to appeal to whatever twisted intimacy they had shared in the tub.

Clinton's face hardened. A mask of ice slammed down.

"Last night?" Clinton raised an eyebrow. "Nothing happened last night, Doctor. You were delirious."

He was denying her. He was erasing the connection.

Isela's heart shattered. He was going to sell her.

Jairo laughed. It was a bark of a sound. "See? He's done with you. Take her."

The agents grabbed her again. This time, they didn't drag. They lifted.

Isela watched Clinton. He was just standing there, watching her be carried away. He was testing her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow.

He didn't save damsels. He invested in assets. If she went into that helicopter like a sheep, she was worthless to him.

She had to be a wolf.

They reached the helicopter door. The agent on her right reached up to grab the handle.

Isela let her body go dead weight. As she dropped, she twisted.

She lunged her head forward and clamped her teeth onto the agent's wrist, right over the radial artery.

She bit down hard. She tasted salt and copper.

The agent screamed and let go.

Isela dropped to the deck. She didn't try to run. She knew she couldn't outrun bullets.

She grabbed the tactical knife from the agent's belt sheath.

She scrambled back against the landing skids of the helicopter.

"Back off!" she screamed.

She didn't point the knife at them. She reversed the grip and pressed the blade against her own jugular vein.

"Stop!"

Jairo froze. "Don't shoot! I need her brain intact!"

Isela pressed harder. A thin trickle of blood ran down her neck, staining the black silk collar of Clinton's shirt.

She looked past Jairo. Straight at Clinton.

"Mr. Collier," she yelled, her voice steady despite the blade at her throat. "If you let him take me, you are admitting that you don't control this ship!"

Clinton's eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, intrigued.

"This isn't about law," Isela continued, her knuckles white on the handle. "This is about sovereignty. If Jairo can land here and take who he wants, when he wants... then you aren't the King of the Leviathan anymore. You're just his landlord."

Silence.

Even the rotor blades seemed to quiet down.

She had challenged his ego. She had framed her survival as necessary for his dominance.

Clinton started to clap.

Slow, rhythmic applause.

"Well argued," Clinton said.

He walked toward her. He walked right past Jairo, right past the agents with guns.

He stopped in front of her.

"Give me the knife, Isela."

"Make them leave," she whispered, her hand shaking.

"Give me the knife," he repeated. "Or cut your throat. But don't bore me with hesitation."

Isela looked into his eyes. She saw the abyss there. He meant it.

She slowly lowered the knife.

Clinton reached out. He took the blade from her hand by the sharp end, not caring that it cut his palm.

He turned to Jairo.

"She stays."

Jairo pulled his gun. He aimed it at Clinton's chest.

"You're making a mistake, Clinton. Over a piece of tail?"

"She's not a piece of tail," Clinton said, tossing the knife overboard. "She's my legal counsel, apparently."

---