Kodiak’s grip tightens on the handle of his case. The air hums between us. This is it—the choice. Hand it over and be undone. Fight and damn everyone in sight.
Kodiak straightens, a bear rising to its full height. “You best mind yourself. I don’t answer to hired men. Nor does my wife.”
A ripple passes through the line of passengers. Heads turn. Hisses prickle the air. Kodiak’s chin lifts a fraction higher, disdain cutting sharp across his face.
The Pinkerton doesn’t flinch. His eyes flick from Kodiak’s hand on the case to my face, then back again. “Sir,” he says. “Your name.”
Kodiak’s jaw hardens. “I’m not obliged to give it.”
“Travelers of interest match your description,” the man goes on, hand close to his coat. “I’ll need to search your luggage.”
“No, you won’t,” Kodiak answers, loud enough to feed the crowd eager for spectacle. The Pinkerton’s hand drops to the pistol at his hip, resting the heel of his hand on it.
“Mr. Byron!” Mrs. Taft sweeps forward, pearls flashing, indignant as a queen. “How dare you!” she says to the Pinkerton, planting her hand firmly on Kodiak’s arm. “This man and his wife are friends of ours.”
The Pinkerton’s eyes slide to her hand. To her glove. White silk, marred by a faint smear of brown-red.
Blood.
“Madam, where did you come by that stain?”
“What stain?”
The Pinkerton reaches for her, taking her wrist and twisting her arm slightly to give her a better look.
She stammers. “I-I cannot say. Perhaps the dining room, perhaps?—”
He interrupts her. “Madam, please step aside.” He turns to us. “You step aside as well, please. I’ll need to speak with you all privately.”
Kodiak squares his shoulders. “We’re disembarking, same as anyone. We’ve nothin’ to say, in private or otherwise.”
The Pinkerton tips his head at a steward. “Bring me their bags.”
The steward hesitates, glances at us, then reaches for the case in Kodiak’s hand.
“Wouldn’t recommend it, boy,” Kodiak growls, voice dangerous.
The steward startles, but the Pinkerton presses. “It will be returned once I’ve inspected it.”
That’s when Kodiak moves. One hand seizes the Pinkerton’s pistol, the other drives his shoulder forward, twisting the man off balance. Before anyone can gasp, the barrel’s pressed to his temple.
The Pinkerton’s eyes widen.
A shot splits the air like cannon fire.
Gore sprays across the steward’s coat. The Pinkerton crumples sideways, skull shattered, the echo rolling through the ship’s timbers. For a heartbeat the deck freezes, stunned into silence.
Then the gates of hell burst open.
Screams. Shrieks. Parasols scatter. Men shove their wives behind them. Children wail. A gentleman vomits into the sea. Mrs. Taft stands perfectly still, expression frozen, silk hat spattered with blood.
Kodiak shoves the smoking gun into his waistband, seizes me hard by the arm, and drags me through the chaos.
“Move!”
We plunge into the sea of first-class passengers. They claw at each other, scrambling for distance from the corpse. I stumble, clutching the satchel to my chest. It’s heavy, so heavy. The steward slips in blood, and Kodiak kicks him square in the chest, toppling him into the rail.
Every officer’s whistle shrieks at once, the shrill blasts cutting through the panic.
