“This isn’t a game.”
“I know that.”
“You’re high schoolers.”
“Acknowledged.”
“So act like it.”
“Roger that.”
“Which means don’t use radio speak when I’m sitting next to you.”
Kenny blushed.
“You’re excited. I get that. It’s exciting work. But their lives depend on our doing a good job. You understand? Their lives. No exaggeration. So get the giggles out and man up.”
Kenny nodded. Bart looked a little confused.
“Explain it to him,” she said.
“Will do,” Kenny said.
“And don’t mess this up!”
Kenny leaned away from her.
“Now you’re getting it.” Storey appraised them both. “Cast Members. That’s all. You are Cast Members, helping out.”
Not knowing what to say, Kenny said nothing. Storey left the balcony, but not without one last menacing look to drive home her point: they were answering to her.
And she meant business.
* * *
With Maybeck and Willa long gone, the disembarka-tion of Luowski and then Dixon set off a flurry of Wave Phone texts and conversations that resulted in Philby’s leaving his post.
With a bird’s eye view from Deck 11, Kenny reported that Luowski had bypassed the excursion buses and was headed into town on foot. A man––or a big kid––followed nearly the same route, about five minutes later.
Philby closed the distance but lost sight of Luowski behind some massive oil tanks. Kenny reported that he was heading west on the street closest to the docks. “Just below the blimp.”
A miniature blimp, about the size of a car, maneuvered overhead. It bore the Disney Channel logo in bright yellow. Following in the general direction of the blimp, Philby spotted Luowski entering a Quiznos sandwich shop. So far, so good.
Finn left the ship and headed to the taxi queue on schedule. As he was about to climb into the backseat, he heard a report through his earbud that a small boat had just pulled up on the opposite side of the ship from the dock.
“I’m on it,” said Storey’s voice.
“No time,” Philby told her.
“I’m taking the express lane,” she replied.
* * *
Storey Ming opened a watertight door marked CREW ONLY. It was an exterior deck area where a number of cables as thick as her leg ran through portholes and secured the ship to the dock. These spring lines tied the ship tight to the dock while allowing for, and self-adjusting to, the ship’s subtle movements.
She stuck her head out oval porthole and gulped. It was a long way down.
She located a short length of chain and threw it over a cable, taking hold of the chain at either end. Storey sat on the sill of the open porthole, watching the dock activity, awaiting her moment. Then she slid off.
She flew down the line, a tiny speck of girl amid the oversized world of the Dream. There were several spring lines securing the bow. She’d chosen the farthest forward line. A second line, set just below hers, gave her a way to break her descent.
Storey raced toward the huge iron cleat on the dock, counting down in her head. At the last second, she let go of the chain, tucked into a ball, and rolled across the dock in a somersault. She scraped both her knees and elbows, but didn’t break any bones.
“Hey! You there!”
She took inventory: the ship behind her, stretching a thousand feet to her left; the empty pier and taxi stand to her right.
She took off at a sprint. No dockhand was going to catch her.
As Storey cleared the terminal building, she spotted a pair of umbrellas and behind the umbrellas, two men, all climbing steep stairs from a small boat. She reached for her Wave Phone to report. Gone!
She checked for her wallet: still in her pocket.
When the umbrellas were collapsed, allowing their holders to board a parked taxi, they revealed two women, one small and dark, the other tall and thin.
Diving into the back of another waiting taxicab, Storey yanked the door shut. The driver spun around, a wide smile on his face.
“Welcome to Aruba! Where can I take you?”
She’d always wanted to say the words she said now.
“Follow that car!” Storey cried.
* * *
A sad-looking sandwich sign on the sidewalk advertised an ATM. A tired, darkly tanned man in a loud shirt stood by a dilapidated former school bus, now painted in outrageous colors reading FANTASY ISLAND TOUR. Neon lights flashed in various shop windows: GOLD! JEWELRY! SOUVENIRS! T-SHIRTS!
Philby kept his eye on the door of the Quiznos, his palms sweaty.
The stagehand Dixon entered, obviously to rendezvous with Luowski. Moments later, the two left the shop. Philby followed, keeping a good distance back.
Quickly, the upscale street, Arendstraat, gave way to a seedier side street. The crumbling sidewalks and low concrete-block buildings made Philby feel unsafe. The drone of the overhead blimp grabbed his attention. It was like an annoying insect circling his head.