Read Chapter 11: The Steerage Pursuit

The corridor on E-Deck smelled of salt, steam, and something fouler—bilge water that had sloshed too long in the dark. Jack moved with his shoulders hunched, collar up, the stolen steward's jacket doing little to disguise the way he scanned every doorway, every shadow. The ship groaned around him, a living thing breathing through its pipes and rivets, and somewhere above, first class was toasting the grandeur of it all. Down here, the grandeur had run out about two decks ago.

Anna Jackson's cabin was number 47, third door past the linen stores. Margaret had given him the number with a look that said *be careful*, and Jack had given her a grin that said *always*—a lie they both understood. He stopped outside the door now, pressing his palm flat against the wood. No light beneath. No sound within.

He tried the handle. Locked.

"Of course it is," he muttered, and reached into his boot for the pick.

The lock was a simple thing, brass and stubborn, and Jack had opened better in his sleep. Twenty seconds later the tumbler gave with a soft *click* that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet corridor. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

The cabin had been torn apart.

It wasn't the careless chaos of a quick search—this was methodical, angry. The mattress had been slashed diagonally, its stuffing pulled out in gray clumps and piled on the floor. Drawers lay upended, their contents scattered. A small writing desk had been tipped over, its single drawer yanked free and cracked against the wall. Every article of clothing had been removed from the wardrobe and thrown in a heap, pockets turned out, seams ripped.

Jack stood in the center of the wreckage and felt his stomach tighten. Someone had been very thorough. Someone had been very desperate.

He moved carefully, toeing through the debris. A broken hand mirror. A hairbrush with dark strands tangled in the bristles. A half-eaten biscuit, hard as stone. A Bible, its spine cracked open to the book of Proverbs. Jack picked it up, checked the binding, shook it. Nothing.

He worked the room the way his father had taught him—patient, systematic, the way a man searches when he knows hidden things. The slashed mattress yielded nothing. The overturned desk was clean. He ran his fingers along the underside of the wardrobe shelf, found only dust.

But the loose floorboard near the bed caught his eye. It sat slightly proud of its neighbors, a hairline gap of shadow running along one edge. Jack knelt, worked his fingernails into the seam, and pried.

The board came up with a groan. Beneath it, in a hollow cut into the beam, lay a small leather notebook.

Jack lifted it out. The cover was worn soft, the corners rounded with handling. He flipped it open and felt his breath catch.

It was the same list. The one he'd decoded from the locket—the vault numbers, the bank names, the staterooms. But this was the original, handwritten in ink that had faded to a rusty brown. Names scrawled in a tight, precise hand, some crossed out with a single line, others circled twice. In the margin, next to the name *Cyrus Vance*, was a question mark.

And on the inside back cover, in the same hand but larger, as if written in haste: *If they find this, they find everything. Tell no one. Trust no one. Not even the one who sent you.*

Jack stared at the words a long moment. Anna Jackson had known. She'd known what she was carrying, known what it was worth, known that someone would come for it.

The question was whether it had saved her or killed her.

He tucked the notebook into his jacket, against his chest, and turned toward the door.

That was when the footsteps stopped outside.

Jack froze. The footsteps hadn't passed—they'd halted, directly at the threshold. He heard the soft scrape of a boot sole shifting, the quiet creak of someone settling their weight. Then the handle turned.

Locked, he thought. I locked it behind me. Good. He'd—

The handle jiggled once, twice. A low voice muttered something in a language Jack didn't recognize—German, maybe. Then the wood of the door shuddered as a shoulder slammed against it.

Jack was already moving. He crossed the small room in two strides, vaulting over the ruined mattress, and hit the window. It was a porthole, round and thick, sealed with a brass latch. He twisted the latch and shoved. The glass swung outward on a hinge, and cold Atlantic air flooded in, sharp with salt and spray.

He heard the door splinter behind him—one more impact and it would give.

Jack didn't think. He grabbed the frame, pulled himself up, and wriggled through the porthole headfirst.

It was a tighter squeeze than he'd expected. His shoulders caught on the rim, and for a horrible moment he was stuck, legs flailing inside the cabin while the door crashed open behind him. Then he twisted, sucking in his gut, and popped through.

He fell.

The sea rushed toward him, black and hungry, thirty feet below. The ship's hull curved away beneath him, riveted steel streaming with condensation. Jack's hands scrambled for purchase, found a pipe running along the hull, and clung to it with every ounce of strength in his fingers.

His feet swung free over the water. The cold hit him instantly, seeping through his clothes, biting at his skin. Spray from the waves lashed his face. For a moment, he hung there, gasping, heart slamming against his ribs.

Above him, the porthole glowed. A silhouette filled it—broad-shouldered, bull-necked, the same man who'd been paying too much attention to Jack in the third-class smoking room the night before. Moran's man. The one with the hands like hams and the eyes that never blinked.

Their gazes met through the glass. The man's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Then he reached through the porthole, grasping for Jack's fingers.

Jack swung. The pipe ran along the hull toward the bow, and he hand-walked along it, feet finding purchase on a narrow ledge just below. The hull here was slick with salt, treacherous. The man's arm snaked out after him, thick as a mooring line, fingers brushing Jack's sleeve.

"Give it back," the man said. His voice was calm. Almost bored. "The book. Give it back and I'll let you climb inside before you freeze."

Jack laughed—a short, ragged sound torn from his throat. "Generous of you."

The man's fingers closed on Jack's cuff.

Jack wrenched his arm free, felt fabric tear, and swung himself along the pipe with desperate urgency. His feet slipped, caught, slipped again. The sea churned below, white-topped waves reaching up like grasping hands. If he fell, he'd be sucked into the screws and ground to pulp. If he stayed, the cold would take him in minutes.

The man was climbing out of the porthole now, impossibly, his bulk wedging through the opening with brute force. He moved like a bear, slow but unstoppable.

Jack looked ahead. The pipe ended twenty feet farther along, at a vent grate set into the hull—a laundry exhaust, by the smell of steam and soap rising from it. He'd seen those grates on the deck plans, knew they connected to the service chutes that ran down to the laundry in the lower decks.

It was a chance. A stupid chance.

Better than drowning.

He ran along the ledge, heedless of the drop, and threw himself at the grate. His fingers caught the metal mesh, and he hung there, feet scrabbling for purchase. The screws bit into his hands. Behind him, he heard the man's boots clang against the hull.

The grate was bolted. Of course it was bolted.

But the bolts were old, and the salt had done its work. Jack braced his feet against the hull and pulled with everything he had. The top bolt sheared with a ping that sang through the air. The second followed a heartbeat later.

The grate swung open beneath him, and Jack tumbled into darkness.

He fell hard, landing on a pile of damp linen that broke his fall but knocked the wind from his lungs. The chute was narrow, funnel-shaped, walls slick with condensation. Above him, the opening framed the night sky—and the silhouette of the man, peering down after him.

Jack scrambled to his feet and ran.