Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“She’s never been touched, Lyric.”


Donovan Spangler appears behind me with two armed guards. I turn and point the gun at him.

“Let her out.”

“There are a few specimens we have decided to keep as is, you know, in case we needed them as bargaining chips. Like her, for instance,” he says, gesturing behind me. “And, of course, this one.”

I follow his gesture to another tank. Inside it floats a boy with golden hair and skin, his arms marred by scars, and a face that has visited my dreams almost every night since the last time I saw him.

Fathom.

I peer through the thick glass, suddenly wondering if I’m dreaming or, worse, hallucinating, and that Spangler actually broke me and this is all a delusion. I slam my hand against the tank until my knuckles split open and spill blood onto the floor.

“Is he alive?” I ask.

“Oh, yes,” Spangler says, smacking the tank himself. “In fact, he seems to prefer being in there.”

Guards escort my father and Bex. They hobble toward us with guns pointed into their backs.

Fathom opens his eyes, and he smiles at me. He says something, but I can’t make it out.

“Miss Walker, I’d like to make you an offer. Just hear me out, and if you do, I’ll let your mother and your boyfriend out of these tanks. How does that sound? Just five minutes of your time?”





Chapter Fourteen


SPANGLER HAS AMY BRING MY FATHER A WHEELCHAIR. She’s jumpy and angry at the same time. I suspect she was hoping for a little sympathy after what she just went through. I’m too shocked and confused to enjoy her disappointment.

Doyle meets us at the elevator. He gives me a pleading look, a Please, will you behave? expression I used to see on my parents’ faces when I was little. He won’t look at my father or Bex at all. He keeps his head down and escorts us out into a hallway until we enter an employee cafeteria. There are round tables and plastic chairs, a salad bar, and a soda machine. Everything is painted bright white. A rich and savory aroma wafts into my nose, and my stomach rumbles. I can see it’s having the same effect on Dad and Bex.

Doyle leads us to a big table in the center.

“What does he want?” my father asks Doyle.

“He wants what we all want,” Doyle says as he points to me. “Her help. And if you’re smart, you’ll tell her to give it to him.”

“Is that some kind of threat?” my father says. He tries to stand, but his face turns white. His ribs must be killing him, but he doesn’t cry out. He’s tough, and I’m sure he wants Doyle to see it.

“It’s not a threat. It’s a plea for common sense. I know you have done a great job with her, Leonard. She’s strong and smart and stubborn as hell. Right now she needs to make a good decision,” Doyle says as he takes a seat at the table next to us. “He’s not going to take no for an answer.”

Spangler enters with his tablet in one hand and his smartphone in the other. He’s got a pair of fancy headphones some hip-hop guy invented strapped to his ears, and he’s talking about delivery dates and shipments. Whoever he’s talking to needs a lot of assurance, and Spangler seems to be a pro at appeasing fears. He makes promises and promises, then says that when the person he’s talking to arrives, he wants to take everyone out to dinner. When he’s done, he unplugs his headphones and pulls them down so they wrap around his neck.

“Sorry about that. I’ve got a very nervous client on my hands,” he says, rolling his eyes as if we can sympathize.

“You’re not with the military?” my father asks.

Spangler chuckles like he’s listening to children.

“Do you think the government could put together something like this? I mean, it’s nothing fancy, but the budget for half of this place would get lost in committee until the end of time. Congress would dither over which state got the tax breaks. I’m sure a small handful of them would raise a stink about the Constitution, and human rights issues—due process—you know how they can get. Anyway, all that haggling might be good for getting a bridge built, but it’s not very practical when the end of the world is on your doorstep. No, when they need something done and done quickly, they go with private enterprise.”

“Or when it’s against the law,” my father adds.

“Yes, the ugly stuff is usually done by corporations. We’re difficult to prosecute for war crimes, at least in America. Here you can send a soldier to jail for atrocities, but who do you point the finger at when a business does it? Truth is, I find some of it a bit distasteful myself, but are we going to let the world go to hell in a handbasket waiting for bipartisan support? That’s why they need us. We’re in the business of results.”

“We don’t care about your business plan. We want out of here,” my father growls.