Dark Life: Rip Tide (14 page)

Gemma and I whirled to scan the night sky, though I already knew who we’d see, having recognized the voice that had boomed down at us. And there he was—Mayor Gideon Fife—leaning out a window of his striped airship, a megaphone to his mouth.

“Ty, Gemma, stay right there,” he ordered, voice blaring. “I’m coming down.”

As soon as the airship swung toward the top of the stadium, Plover and the other surfs scattered. I figured they had the right idea. Noting that Ratter was headed back to the booth as if he had work to attend to, I met eyes with Gemma. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What, you don’t trust Fife’s intentions?”

Her question was rhetorical, yet I asked, “Do you want to stick around to find out if they’re good?”

“Not for a second.”

With that, we sprinted up the steep aisle between the rows, heading for the corridor that would take us back to the hanging bridge. But before we could make it to the
top, a dark figure appeared in the archway. When I stopped short, Gemma bumped into me from behind.

“Why—” Without finishing the question, she followed my gaze and saw the large man descending toward us. His face was still too dark to make out, but with each step down he favored one leg—Shade.

He paused on the stairs above us. “See you two are still alive.” He didn’t sound angry, but he wasn’t smiling, either. He looked off to the left. “Been keeping an eye on them?”

I turned to see Fife strolling between the seats one row up. “Just arrived myself,” he told Shade. “You must admit, when I say I’ll take care of you, I always do.”

“Was just at your stall, dropping off my thank-you,” Shade replied as they clasped hands. “Fresh oysters.”

Fife grinned. “Now that’s my kind of thank-you.”

“You have a stall in the black market?” I asked Fife. That seemed wrong somehow, since he was the ’wealth’s surf agent.

“Of course,” he said. “Who knows better than me what the surfs need? Shade and I have been working together for years. He and the boys provide the supplies, I sell them, and the surfs buy them. Everyone wins.”

“You’re
the one who asked Shade to bust up our deal with Drift and steal our crop.”

Fife’s brows rose in surprise. “That’s a strong accusation.”

I noticed that he didn’t deny it. “That was your stall selling the laver, wasn’t it? But Shade didn’t steal it for you. So what, when he refused, you forced the Drift surfs to do it?” My anger mounted as I began to see how all the elements fit together. “You’ve known where my parents were all along because you forced Hadal to kidnap them.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Fife exclaimed, holding up his hands. “You’re going to have me assassinating President Warison next. Look, I admit that when I buy goods to sell in Hardluck Ruins, I don’t ask how they were obtained.” He and Shade exchanged a look of amusement. “So as far as I know, it’s all legit. Now kidnapping, well, that doesn’t even have the patina of legal. Wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t ask someone else to.”

“You got us to break him out of jail.” Gemma pointed at Shade.

“I didn’t ask you to,” Fife replied smoothly.

I knew my shine must be glowing over how stupid we’d been. How easily they’d used us. Forcing myself to stay calm, I asked Shade, “How did you know that we’d free you?”

“Didn’t think you’d let me sit and rot.” His gaze settled on Gemma. “Not when someone is so good at picking pockets.”

Fife grinned. “I never even felt you lift it.”

She flushed with anger. “Why couldn’t you just let him out yourself?”

“A mayor set loose a fugitive?” Fife said with mock horror. “Besides, this way a hundred mainlanders can swear that during the time of the breakout, I never left the sundeck. I didn’t even tell Ratter the plan. He’s a great thug, but a terrible actor.” He looked at me. “Sorry about the dunk in the eel pool.”

“The eel pool?” I scoffed. “What about the crocodile pool? Are you going to apologize to
those
people?”

“For what? I’m providing them with an opportunity. Don’t recall you having a problem with the boxing match.”

“People don’t die in a boxing ring.”

“On the surf circuit they do. All the time. But it’s the surf’s choice to step into the ring. Same with the stadium. No one forces them into that water.”

“Their circumstances force them,” I said coldly.

“And what caused their circumstances?” Fife asked pointedly. “Maybe an ordinance that keeps them from fishing on the continental shelf?”

Shame tore through me. I had no answer for that.

“There’s our ride,” Shade said, pointing toward the part of the stadium that had collapsed into a wall of rubble. Now the purpose of the razor wire strung across
the breach was obvious—to keep the crocodiles from escaping into the ocean. Beyond the fence, an enormous fin cut through the waves. The
Specter.

Fife sighed and cast a look at Shade. “Breaks my heart to think you won’t enter the ring again anytime soon.”

“Anytime ever.”

“You would have drawn them in by the hordes. Oh, well. So, we’re back to our usual arrangement?”

“Should have something for you within the week,” Shade confirmed.

Just listening to them made me want to dive in the ocean to scrub off.

With a wave of his hat, Fife signaled his airship, which was holding its position over the stadium. At the same time, Shade took off in the opposite direction, heading for the breach.

“I’m thinking about ocean rodeo next,” said Fife, looking at me. “Dolphin roping, bucking orcas,” he went on as a ladder unfurled next to him, dropped from the hovering airship. “What a show it could be. Shame you’re not eighteen.” With a tip of his hat, Fife mounted the ladder and climbed toward an open hatch in the floor of the airship’s compartment.

Spinning on her heel, Gemma hurried to catch up with Shade, who stood at the edge of the breach. He jumped before she reached him. Racing over, I saw that
the edge was not a sheer drop-off but a steep incline of cement and debris. Below, Shade leapt from chunk to chunk until he’d reached the top of the razor wire, where he dropped to the rubble wall on the ocean side. Moving at a more careful pace, Gemma and I followed.

The
Specter
had circled back and now Pretty stood on the pectoral fin, swinging a grappling hook at the end of a rope. When the sub reached the gap, he let the hook fly. With a thud, it landed in front of the fence and scraped along until it caught in the wall.

“How can you do business with a man who runs an event like that?” Gemma asked Shade the moment she’d alighted onto the rubble.

“Ease her in closer,” Shade shouted down, then he turned to her. “Fife pays the most for our goods.”

“What kind of excuse is that? This is happening right in front of you”—she jabbed a finger toward the flooded stadium—“and you’re doing nothing about it.”

“Never threw a coin,” Shade replied, unfazed. “Never will.”

Below us, Pretty used the dangling line to climb up, hand over hand. At the top, he hauled himself onto the wall and stood, with his long hair glowing like silver in the moonlight. “We need to make wake,” he told Shade, and handed him the line. “Those skimmers are still circling.”

“I’m not going with you,” I told them.

“You going to fly out of here?” Shade sounded amused.

“I’ll borrow one of the surfs’ scrap boats and row out.”

“Suit yourself.” He held out the line to Gemma. When she didn’t take it, he frowned. “I’ll drop you where you want.”

“I’m staying with Ty.”

“Think I’m going to let you paddle out of here on a heap of trash? Think again.”

Several members of the Seablite Gang stood on the
Specter
’s fin watching as Gemma backed away from him.

“You got five seconds to get aboard the easy way,” he warned her, “or we do it the hard way.”

“Dark Life,” Pretty said abruptly. “Know how to sail?”

“What?”

“Boat. On top of the water. Sail,” he spelled out in a dry tone.

“Yeah, I can sail.” I’d learned on the
Seacoach
when I was young, practicing on supply runs to the coast.

“The surfs keep sails and rigging in the back of the first building south,” he told me. “Just follow the wall and you’ll find it.”

“Thanks,” I said, while wondering if his information was on the level. The last time Pretty and I talked, he’d threatened me with a knife.

Turning to Shade, he said softly, “Hauling her aboard kicking and screaming … You really want to set that example?” He tilted his head fractionally toward the watching outlaws.

“Didn’t know I needed a conscience.” Shade’s tone had a dangerous edge.

Pretty eased back. “You don’t pay me enough for a job that hard. Do what you want.”

Shade leveled his gaze at Gemma. “Buck me on this and you don’t get another chance. You understand?”

She nodded.

“So, are you coming?”

“No,” she said firmly.

He tipped his head as if saying
“so be it”
and turned to rappel down the dangling line onto the
Specter
’s fin.

“That’s chum,” Pretty scoffed, facing me. “If anything happens to her, he’ll kill us both.”

“I won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Then take off now before Fife decides you’ve seen too much. He didn’t hire Ratter for his math skills.”

“Pretty!” Eel shouted. He stood on the fin alone, holding open the hatch. “You better jump or he’s going to leave you swimming with the crocs.”

Cursing, Pretty took a flying leap onto the fin. The hatch barely closed behind them before the sub sank under the water.

“I was wrong about him,” I said, watching the
Specter
’s dorsal fin disappear.

“Do you mean you underestimated Pretty or overestimated my brother?” Gemma asked sadly.

“Come on.” I took her cold hand in mine. “Let’s get out of here.”

No guard watched over the boats tethered together by the rubble wall. Resolving to return it at my earliest opportunity, I chose the sturdiest among them, and Gemma and I climbed in. Paddling away from the light of the stadium into the sweltering darkness, we headed south.

“I don’t understand,” Gemma said from the front of the boat. “Why did Gabion send us here?”

“He heard me ask Captain Revas why Drift would have done it. I think he was showing me why.”

“No one knows how bad the surfs have it.”

“Because little things added up—settlers passing the ordinance, states not letting townships near the coast, and the federal government cutting their rations. No one saw the total effect.”

“Or cared to,” she added.

We came to the first building south of the stadium. It was perched on higher ground, yet only one story was visible above the water. Circling, we spotted a wide entryway in the back that led into a cavernous room, probably a warehouse at one time. Flashlights dangled from cords
tied to the support beams above and created eerie pools of light on the water.

Though we’d stopped paddling, our boat glided forward in the still water. Docks floated at the back and along the sides of the enormous space. All three were crammed with equipment—masts and sails, stacked fish traps, paddles and crates. We tethered our boat to the dock in the back and climbed out.

“I’ll bet they moor all of the boats in here at the end of the night,” I said, noting the line of cleats that edged each of the docks. “Which means we better hurry. I don’t want to be here when the surfs come back.”

Gemma untied one of the flashlights and held it while I dragged a rolled-up sail off a pile by the wall.

When I heard her gasp, I looked up to find her staring at me with horror. “What?” I glanced around but saw only piles of rigging.

“On the wall,” she said in a choked voice. With her flashlight directed over my shoulder, she spotlighted a word painted across the cracked cement in large, scrawling letters—
SURGE.

Before I could make sense of it, Gemma tracked the flashlight’s beam over the wall until she discovered another:
FIDDLEBACK.

Finding no more on that wall, she directed the light to the other side of the loading bay. She said the next township name aloud even before she found it: “Nomad.”
And there it was, in scrawled letters just above the floating dock.

The heat inside the warehouse grew oppressive. “Maybe the surfs painted the names of the missing townships as a way to commemorate them,” I suggested.

“Does that writing look respectful to you? Or does it look like it’s intended to scare people?”

“Scare or warn,” I agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”

After one last look around the dark, dripping space, I pulled the mosquito netting from the boat’s mast and rigged the sail in its place. Gemma continued to shine her flashlight across the mountains of stuff, until something caught her eye behind a curtain of fishing nets that had been hung up to dry. When she ventured toward that corner, I called, “Gemma,” in a hoarse whisper. “Come back.” I didn’t need the light, but she felt too far away for my peace of mind.

“I think I see more writing,” she said.

“Come back,” I insisted. “I’m finished. Let’s get out of here.” I glanced at the entryway, half expecting to see the flotilla of surf boats arriving. They weren’t. But what I did see there stopped my heart.

“Ty, look.” Gemma had pulled the fishnets aside. “‘Drift’ is painted here.”

“Chum,” I muttered, whirling around to look for a weapon.

“What?” she asked.

I pointed at the water where a wake streamed into the docking area as if made by an invisible boat. “Crocodile.” Only its nostrils poked above the water. But judging by the size of its ripple and the width of its snout, the croc had to be nearly twenty feet long.

Gemma let the fishing nets fall back into place. “Oh, crap.”

The creature made a wide circle and headed back toward the entrance.

“It’s okay,” she whispered as much for herself as for me. “It’s leaving.”

But no, the crocodile didn’t leave. It took up a spot in the center of the entryway and floated, daring us to come near.

“Even if we’re in the boat, it can get us, right?” she asked, although it was clear she already knew the answer.