Read Chapter 22: The Double Cross

The engine-room gratings rang under their boots as Jack, Margaret, and Adelaide climbed the iron ladder toward C Deck. The matron moved with surprising speed for a woman of her age, her dark skirts hitched in one fist, her other hand gripping the rail. She did not look back.

"The gymnasium," Adelaide said, breathless but steady. "Vance takes his constitutional there every evening at nine. He believes the rhythm of the rowing machines clears his head. It is the one place he will not have guards."

Jack ducked under a steam pipe, wiping sweat from his brow. "You've been watching him."

"Someone must." Adelaide's jaw tightened. "My cousin has bled my family dry for three years. I have watched him ruin us, piece by piece, at the card tables of Boston and London. Tonight I watch him end."

Margaret walked ahead, silent, her arms crossed. Jack caught her eye and saw something cold there—not fear, but calculation. She had not spoken since they'd left the supply cage.

They emerged onto the enclosed promenade that ran along the starboard side of C Deck. The gymnasium lay ahead, its tall windows glowing amber against the dark Atlantic beyond. Inside, the mechanical horses stood in patient rows, their leather saddles gleaming. The air smelled of rubber mats and machine oil.

Jack pressed himself against the wall beside the door and peered through the glass. Vance was there, alone, working a rowing machine with mechanical precision. His dinner jacket hung on a nearby rack. His face was red with exertion, his collar loosened.

"Now," Adelaide whispered. "Before he finishes."

Jack reached for the door handle.

"Jack O'Leary."

The voice came from behind him—quiet, amused, close enough that Jack felt the breath on his neck. He spun.

Vance stood at the far end of the corridor, a cigarette in one hand, a small Derringer in the other. Behind him, two crew-cut men in dark suits had Margaret by the arms. Her mouth was covered by a gloved hand, but her eyes blazed with fury above the fingers. A thin trickle of blood ran from her lip.

"Margaret," Jack said.

"Ah, yes." Vance took a slow drag from his cigarette, let the smoke curl from his lips. "Your accomplice. Though I must say, Margaret, I'm disappointed. I thought you'd learned your lesson the first time."

Margaret's eyes went wide—not with fear, but with recognition. Vance smiled.

"You remember Anna Jackson, don't you? How she screamed when we found her in the hold? How she begged—" He stopped, took another drag. "But no need for that history now. We're all adults here. Jack, you have something that belongs to me."

Jack's hand drifted toward his coat. The list was still in the supply cage, hidden in the oilskin. But Vance didn't know that.

"I don't have it," Jack said.

Vance sighed and raised the Derringer, pointing it at Margaret's knee. "Wrong answer."

"Wait." Jack held up both hands. "Wait. It's not on me. I can get it. But you'll need to let her go."

Vance tilted his head, considering. "You're lying. I know you. You don't trust anyone. Whatever you found, you keep it close." He gestured to one of his men. The thug ripped open Margaret's coat, searching. Nothing. Then he began patting down Jack from behind, hands rough, efficient. He reached Jack's coat pocket and paused. His fingers closed around the papers there.

"What's this?" The man pulled out a folded stack of stationery embossed with the White Star logo—the letter they'd stolen from Vance's cabin before hiding the list. Vance snatched it, scanned the contents, and laughed.

"The letter. Bold. I'll give you that. But the list—" He crumpled the letter and tossed it aside. "Where is the list?"

"Somewhere you'll never find it," Jack said. "It's hidden. What's on it is already in my head."

Vance studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly and walked toward Margaret. He stopped in front of her, lifted her chin with the barrel of the Derringer.

"You know what I had to do with Anna Jackson? After we got what we needed? She thought she was clever. Hid the cipher in pieces. Thought she could sell the whole key to Pemberton's rivals." He shook his head. "You're just like her, Margaret. Same fire. Same stubborn pride."

Margaret's eyes glistened. Above the thug's glove, her cheeks were wet.

"Give me the list," Vance said softly, "or I'll put a bullet in her knee and let her watch herself bleed out on this deck. The ship's going down anyway. It's just a matter of who gets a seat."

Jack's throat tightened. The man was right. They had passed the lifeboat drills, seen the empty davits, felt the increasing list of the deck beneath their feet. Whatever Vance had planned for midnight would seal the ship's fate. And here they stood, at the point of a gun.

"Let her go."

Vance raised an eyebrow. "You have something to trade?"

"I have the cipher key." Jack's voice was steady now. "It's in my head. You can beat it out of me, but you won't. Not before the ship sinks. But I'll write it for you. Right now. On one condition."

Vance smiled. "You want to buy her life."

"I want to buy her safety. Let her walk to the lifeboat. You'll see her go. Then I write the key, and you have everything."

"Jack, no—" Margaret's muffled voice cut off as the thug tightened his grip.

Jack held Vance's gaze. "That's the deal."

Vance's finger hovered over the trigger. Then he laughed. "You really are a fool. But a useful one." He nodded to the men. "Release her."

The thugs let Margaret go. She stumbled toward Jack, and he caught her arm.

"Go," he said quietly. "Boat deck. Find Adelaide. Don't wait."

Margaret opened her mouth to argue, but Jack shook his head. She pressed her lips together, turned, and disappeared down the corridor.

Vance watched her go, then turned back to Jack, extending a small notebook from his coat pocket. "Write it."

Jack took the notebook and the pen Vance offered. He jotted the cipher key slowly, buying time, watching Vance's eyes drift toward the gymnasium windows, where Adelaide had vanished. There was something wrong. The matron had not moved when Vance arrived. She should have been here. Where had she gone?

Jack finished the key and handed it back. Vance scanned it, nodded. And then, without warning, the Derringer cracked against Jack's temple.

The world dissolved into white light, then black. Jack's knees buckled. He felt himself falling, heard Vance's boots receding down the corridor.

"Throw him in the mail room," Vance said. "Let him drown with his secrets."

The last thing Jack registered before darkness swallowed him was a single, distant sound—three short blasts of the ship's steam whistle, crying for help across an empty sea.