Chapter 4 - Shadows Below Deck
The salt spray stung Ashly’s eyes as she pressed her back against the exterior bulkhead of the cruise liner, navigating the narrow perimeter ledge while the massive vessel plowed through the dark ocean swells. The wind threatened to peel her fingers away from the steel handholds, but her upper body strength, forged in military obstacle courses, kept her anchored.
She needed to reach Deck 2.
According to Clara—the captive passenger trapped in the adjacent room—the horrifying proof of Gregory’s past crimes was locked away in the ship’s primary cold-storage facility. If she wanted to survive, and if she wanted to expose the Hartman family’s decades-long pattern of honeymoon murders, she couldn't just hide. She had to secure physical evidence before the ship crossed the maritime boundary into international waters, where local jurisdiction would dissolve and the corrupt corporate lawyers of the cruise line could bury the investigation forever.
Using the master key ring she had snatched from the security guard, Ashly unlocked an emergency maintenance stairwell door near the aft portion of Deck 6.
The interior of the stairwell was bathed in industrial yellow light, smelling faintly of bleach and hydraulic oil. She descended rapidly, her footsteps silent and calculated. Every landing represented a potential checkpoint for ship security, who were undoubtedly broadcasting her description across the vessel’s internal radio network as a "delusional and violent passenger."
“Code Adam in Sector 4. Search party mobilizing to the lower engineering decks,” a crackling voice echoed from a security walkie-talkie mounted near the fire suppression station on Deck 4.
Ashly flattened herself against the corrugated steel wall as two uniformed guards rushed past the landing above her, their boots clattering noisily down the metal steps. They were looking upward, expecting her to try to reach the upper bridge or the satellite communication arrays. They weren't looking down toward the engine room and the deep storage holds.
Diving deeper into the labyrinthine belly of the ship, the ambient temperature began to plummet. The rhythmic, thrumming vibration of the massive diesel engines grew deafening, rattling the fillings in her teeth and vibrating through the soles of her shoes.
She reached Deck 2.
The hallway here was long, sterile, and lined with heavy stainless-steel double doors leading to the ship’s massive provision lockers, pantries, and deep-freeze compartments. The air tasted stale, frosted with microscopic ice crystals that clung to her eyelashes.
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At the far end of the corridor stood the primary cold-storage refrigeration unit—a massive industrial vault where tons of perishable goods were kept for the multi-thousand-person passenger manifest.
And standing directly in front of the heavy insulated door, smoking a cigarette in violation of every maritime safety regulation, was the ship’s corrupt doctor.
