It’s almost dark when we get to the marina, and the taxi drives off with a substantial amount of our dwindling money. I know this isn’t the time to be thinking like an artist, but this little harbor is an amazing place. The boats are bobbing gently, and the ocean is lapping at the dock. The lights of the marina are reflected in the water, and the just-risen moon is huge on the horizon. If you live near the sea, scenes like this are probably nothing special. But to me it’s so beautiful and unique that the urge to paint it is almost an ache.
For a fleeting moment, I actually long for my house in Serenity, with its attic studio—so not a possibility, obviously. Anyway, I’ll be turning my powers of observation on this place in a different way, looking for a good boat to steal. It isn’t very artistic, but it’s what we need right now. I wonder if Yvonne-Marie Delacroix had artistic talent too—before necessity turned her into a bank robber.
Malik points to a seventy-foot yacht, gleaming white with dark tinted windows. “That one looks pretty good.”
“Too flashy,” I tell him. “We need something that isn’t so noticeable.”
Malik scowls. “I knew it. We’re going to get a lousy boat.”
“We’re not going to get a floating Bentley, if that’s what you mean,” Amber informs him. “The idea is to get there, not to get there in style.”
The marina is quiet, but far from deserted. Some of the day cruisers are still coming in, and a couple of the yachts are hosting dinner parties. We decide to slip into a small diner a few blocks in from the water, both to feed ourselves and also to pass the time until conditions are better for a boat theft.
I never thought I’d be hungry again after an entire day of Brutus doing a number on my stomach. But the cooking smells in the restaurant remind us that we’re all starving. We eat a lot, even Amber.
We hang out at the table until the place closes at nine thirty and make our way back to the marina. The light in the harbor master’s office is out now; the dinner parties are disbanded and gone. A couple of people are hosing down the decks of their boats. Otherwise, we have the place to ourselves.
We select one of the outer docks and make our way along the wooden pier, browsing like shoppers. The outer ranks are mostly fishing boats—not very luxurious, but good-sized and, more important, sturdy. We’re looking for something easy to steal, but mostly easy to drive and seaworthy.
We have no sailing experience, since none of us has ever been anywhere near a boat. Malik and Eli step aboard each craft, hoping to find helm controls similar to a car’s. That way, they know they’ll have half a chance of being able to drive.
“This one,” Eli decides suddenly.
Malik wrinkles his nose. “It smells like fish.”
“It’s a fishing boat,” Amber observes. “What do you expect it to smell like? Chanel Number Five?”
“It’s perfect,” I tell them. “Look at the name on the stern—Gemini. The twins. Identical twins have the same DNA, just like clones.”
Malik looks disgusted. “Well, if the name has the right symbolism, how could we go wrong?”
“Look.” Eli motions us aboard. “There’s a standard steering wheel, and that lever must be the equivalent of a gas pedal.”
“No key,” Malik puts in.
“No problem,” I say. “We can hot-wire it like a car.” (Scary how quickly the thought comes to mind.) “We just need a flathead screwdriver. There must be a toolbox we can raid.”
“I’m on it.” Malik disappears into the stern. We hear him opening lockers and sorting through gear.
At the helm, I get down on my hands and knees and begin feeling for a panel we can pry open. I’ve already broken one fingernail when Amber hauls me back to my feet.
“I’ve almost got it—” My voice catches in my throat.
Not a dozen steps in front of us, one foot still on the top rung leading from below, stands a mountain of a fisherman, easily six foot three, with a long bushy beard and furious eyes under heavy brows. In his giant hands he wields a lethal-looking spear gun.
His voice matches his appearance—gruff and larger than life. “What are you kids doing here?”
What are we doing? That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?
“We can explain,” Eli manages.
No, we can’t. Not really. But if it keeps the guy from shooting us, I’m all for it. The razor-sharp spear point catches a harbor light and winks at us.
“A little young for joyriders, aren’t you?” He gestures toward us with the weapon. “We’ll see what the cops have to say about that.”
If we get arrested, the police won’t release us until there are parents or adults to hand us over to. Then our fellow clones will be doomed to spend the rest of their lives under the thumb of Project Osiris.
Out of the gloom behind the fisherman, a metal toolbox swings up and around, catching him on the side of the head with a sickening thunk. He drops like a stone, revealing Malik behind him, pale-faced and wide-eyed. The spear gun hits the deck and goes off. The harpoon fires with a hissing sound, burying itself into the console between Eli’s knee and mine. (Too close for comfort.)
Malik’s voice sounds much higher than usual. “Is he dead?”
I shuffle forward and put my hand on the fallen giant’s chest. There’s a strong heartbeat and he’s definitely breathing. “He’s alive!” I exclaim in relief.
“Let’s steal a different boat,” Amber suggests shakily.
“With maybe a different guy down below?” Malik challenges. “And this one’s got a bazooka? No, thanks!”
“He’s right,” Eli says, rubbing his knee. “At least here, there are no surprises.”
“Because they already gave us a heart attack!” Malik rasps.
Amber indicates the fisherman. “What about him?”
“He’s not coming with us, that’s for sure,” replies Eli confidently. “Let’s get him onto the dock.”
Of all the difficulties we’ve faced since learning the truth about Project Osiris, moving the unconscious giant might be the hardest. (A million tons feels like two million tons when it’s dead weight.) It takes all four of us to drag him across the deck and heave him over the side to the dock. He hits the wooden planking so hard that we have to do another breathing check.
“We can’t leave him here like this,” Amber announces.
“He nearly turned you into a shish kebab,” Malik reminds her. “He’s lucky we don’t throw him to the sharks.”
“He’s really hurt,” she insists.
I weigh the situation—the fisherman’s need for a doctor versus ours to head out to sea without attracting attention. “We’ll radio the harbor master to send an ambulance,” I decide. “But not until we’re really far from shore. We can’t take the risk that they’ll send a police boat after us.”
Amber looks daggers at me, and it’s pretty obvious what she’s thinking: That’s exactly what Yvonne-Marie Delacroix would say.
Being offended is a luxury I can’t afford. We’ve got a boat with—I check the fuel gauge—a full gas tank, and West Cay is only eighty miles away.
We don’t have to hot-wire the engine. The keys are on a ring hanging from the fisherman’s belt. It takes a few minutes for Eli to back away from the dock, since he’s being extra careful. We go super slow, with no running lights, until we’re at the mouth of the harbor. Then it’s out into open sea.
We feel the difference in the waves almost immediately. Every swell is like the miniature hill of a roller coaster. Our boat goes up, over, and down before the ocean aims us into the next climb.
“I can’t do eighty miles of this,” Malik says, his face turning green. “I can’t do eighty seconds of it.”
By trial and error, Eli realizes that speeding up will send us cutting over the top of the waves, rather than descending into the trough of every single one. It’s incredible how many things he’s learned how to do without ever being taught. It’s like he can troubleshoot the world the same way he troubleshoots a computer
. In all the craziness, sometimes I forget how much I admire him.
When we can’t see the land beyond a few twinkling lights, I use the ship-to-shore radio to sound the alarm about the unconscious fisherman. “Never mind who this is,” I tell them when they ask my name. “Just get him. He’s going to have a big headache.” I cut the connection.
By this time, Eli has the laptop out, and we’re navigating by GPS, which says we are five hours and forty-two minutes from our destination—Poseidon’s yacht basin on West Cay, Bahamas.
20
MALIK BRUDER
When we lived in Serenity, we were never allowed to watch movies or TV shows where anything bad or scary happened. But here in the real world, I’ve heard there’s this old classic called Jaws where a giant shark goes around eating people and even sinking boats to get at them.
I hope they don’t have that kind of shark in this part of the ocean. Because if they do, we’ll never see it coming. Frieden found some sailing blog on the internet that tells you to keep your lights off to maintain night sight. Now we’ve got a quarter-moon and a few stars peeking out from behind the clouds. That’s it. I thought I knew what dark was, but this is almost like being dead.
I’m alone at the wheel. Eli and the girls are on the computer, which we’re recharging at an outlet. They’re studying up on Poseidon so we’ll know what to expect when we get there.
“You guys are watching the GPS, right?” I call over. “I wouldn’t want to crash into an island or anything like that.”
“We’re still on course,” Eli confirms. “Our speed goes up and down, depending on the wave action, but I think we’re making good time.”
“What’s the matter, Malik?” Amber adds. “I thought you liked driving.”
“I like driving Bentleys. This is creeping me out. There’s no road, and even if there was, I wouldn’t be able to see it. I could be heading for Iceland and never know it.”
“The GPS says you’re not,” Tori returns wearily.
My back is killing me. This chair is made from pure titanium and for a guy about eight times my size. So here I am, straining forward, peering out into nothing, squinting to see even less. My head aches. My stomach is queasy. I’m not technically seasick, but I’m definitely sick of the sea.
At last, Eli comes to spell me. “The girls are both asleep. You should try to get some shut-eye.”
Great. He expects me to sleep with what we’ve got ahead of us. As horrible as this trip is, the worst part is what happens at the end of it—what we have to do when we reach our destination.
We’ve spent weeks putting ourselves through the shredder to get away from Project Osiris. And now we’re doing the exact opposite—running toward them, basically serving ourselves up on a silver platter. I was nuts to agree to it. But how could I leave the others to go it alone? How could I abandon Laska, who—despite being a huge pain in the butt—probably saved my skin half a dozen times?
Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, they’re right. When you’re one of only eleven like you in the whole world, you owe those people your loyalty. You don’t think of loyalty as part of criminal DNA, but that’s something I learned from Gus and his crew. Lenny kept the organization running despite the fact that it looked like Gus would never get out of jail. Even the dog, Counselor, waited more than a hundred dog years for his master to be released. If a German shepherd can be that loyal, I can too.
Well, it isn’t easy, because if Project Osiris gets its teeth into us one more time, we’ll never taste freedom again. Dr. Bruder—my own ex-father—will be mixing the potion that’ll drag us back to Happy Valley and convince us we like it. He and the other parents will have us on a pharmaceutical combo that will erase the past weeks from our memories and make us forget who and what we are.
Who can sleep while sailing into that?
“I suppose you expect me to have sweet dreams, too,” I mutter under my breath.
Laska turns over on the padded bench. “Quiet, Malik. You’re not the only one who’s scared.”
“I’m not scared.” The lie doesn’t convince Laska, who can always read my mind.
There are only two benches, so I make myself a bed out of life jackets and stretch out on the deck. There’s nothing to use for a blanket, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s hot and muggy. We’re used to New Mexico dry heat. This is different—heavier, sweatier. I don’t sleep exactly, although I must doze off a couple of times. It’s better than nothing. Sort of.
Then Eli calls for all hands on deck and we join him at the helm.
There it is, dead ahead, just like the GPS told us it would be. The island is still in shadow, but the resort features are lit up—the huge hotel towers designed as Poseidon’s undersea palace, and the massive volcano, its seven water-slides glowing red like lava flows from the crater.
“Just like on their website,” Tori breathes.
“Look at this place,” Amber says with a disapproving scowl. “There are hungry people in the world, and Poseidon has money to spend on a fake volcano.”
Typical Laska. The nicer something is, the more she finds a way to dump on it.
Frieden is all about the mission. “We did it, you guys. The other clones are out there somewhere. We just have to find them.”
We switch off our running lights as we approach the island. We can see more now—beaches, lush tropical greenery, a harbor filled with luxury yachts that make the Gemini look like a beat-up bathtub toy. To my surprise, we veer away from Poseidon’s boat basin and start to curl around the island’s coast.
“Hey,” I tell Frieden, “you missed the parking lot.”
Tori provides the explanation. “This boat’s our getaway,” she says, squinting as she and Eli anxiously search the shoreline. “We need to keep it hidden so we can load the kids on it and take off.”
At last we come to a stretch of undeveloped coast, with a narrow strip of sandy beach overgrown by tropical plants. Hibiscus and mangrove, Torific supplies. Like we’re writing a travel guide. What matters is it’s the perfect spot—far enough from the busy resort, and bushy enough to hide our boat.
Give Frieden credit—he actually seems halfway nautical as we maneuver closer to the trees.
“Get the anchor,” he orders.
The girls can’t budge the thing, so I go to the stern to show them how it’s done. Okay, it weighs a ton, but I’m able to heave it up and even lift it over my head. “Now, this is called manly strength—” I brag, wishing my voice didn’t sound so strained.
There’s a loud scraping sound, and the Gemini tilts under my feet. The heavy anchor falls from my hands and takes a divot out of the deck, missing my foot by millimeters.
“What happened?” Amber shrills.
Eli turns a white face to us. “We hit something!”
“Speak for yourself,” I hiss. “You hit something! It better not be a giant shark!”
Tori grabs a long spear-tipped pole, leans over the side, and plunges the point straight down into the water. When she pulls it up, the barb has snagged sandy seaweed.
“It’s only a sandbar,” she reports. “It’s good news. We can walk ashore.”
One by one, we climb down the swim ladder and step off into the shallows—which aren’t as shallow as we hoped. We’re soaked to our waists, but I suppose when you’re risking everything trying to do the impossible, being wet and uncomfortable is the least of your worries.
We reach the beach, still under cover of vegetation, and make our way to the edge of the trees. The Poseidon property is laid out before our eyes.
“Wow,” Eli whispers. “Those kids must think they’re in heaven.”
I know what he means. The clones were plucked out of Happy Valley, the most boring place on earth, and dropped in the middle of fantasyland. Everywhere you look there are pools, patios, waterfalls, fountains, playgrounds, gardens, rides, and slides. Miles of lazy river meander around the grounds, snaking between the hotel buildings, the amphitheaters, and the shops
and food kiosks.
“Even in the dark, it’s breathtaking!” Tori says in awe.
Leave it to her to obsess on the wrong thing. “It’s fun, is what it is,” I insist. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could just, you know, hang out here a couple of days before we start the rescue?”
“No,” Eli retorts firmly. “My luck, I’d go off the diving board and land in the water right next to Felix Hammerstrom.”
“Your old man?” I shoot back. “He’d look pretty dumb swimming in his three-piece suit.”
We continue through the maze of walkways and flowerbeds. Poseidon is completely deserted now, yet we can almost sense hundreds of people, maybe thousands, asleep in the hotels and condos. The clock on the dolphin pavilion gives the time as 4:28 a.m.
“Atlantic time,” Eli explains when Tori glances at her watch in confusion. “That’s three hours later than Wyoming.”
The center of the resort is Poseidon’s “palace,” which hosts the main hotel and restaurants. I’ve never been inside a real palace, but I’m guessing this is what one looks like—everything shiny and fancy, with crystal chandeliers, and even more gold than in Gus’s house. One entire wall of the lobby is a humongous fish tank stretching three stories high. And no piddly little goldfish in there either. They’ve got giant sawfish and sea tortoises and sharks and a lot of other stuff I can’t even name. When the manta ray spreads itself out, it’s bigger than a tarp that you could hide a truck under.
“Hey! Hey, you!”
We jump. We’ve yet to see a single soul at Poseidon, so we’re not expecting it when one actually pops up. A uniformed security guard is striding toward us. “What are you kids doing out at this hour? Go back to your parents.” Suddenly, he’s looking down, and I realize that he’s noticing the puddle that’s expanding at our feet. We’re still dripping wet from our wade ashore.
“You’ve been in the pools,” he accuses. “You know the pools are closed now!”
What are we supposed to say? We can’t very well deny it without explaining where the water really did come from.