Chapter 2

Adrift and Undeterred

The plane met the ocean like a boxer's fist kissing the canvas, a shuddering, catastrophic collision of metal and unforgiving water. The sound was monstrous, a cacophony of tearing, rending, and the screams of the damned. The impact was a giant's hand, swatting the aircraft from the sky, crumpling it as a child might a tin can.

Inside, passengers who had braced for a rough landing were thrown like rag dolls, their bodies caught in a maelstrom of shattered plastic, twisted metal, and shattered expectations. Some were silenced before they had a chance to understand what was happening, life winking out with the abrupt finality of a snuffed candle. Others cried out, trapped in the twisted wreckage, their lives hanging by a thread as thin as the hope they clung to.

Frank Baxter, his instincts honed on the mean streets, not in the wild blue yonder, was thrown against the cockpit controls. Pain lanced through him, but he pushed it aside. There was no room for pain, no space for fear. He was the captain now, by default, and he'd be damned if he'd let this be his crew's watery grave.

He shouted orders, his voice cutting through the din. "Life vests! Now! Get them on and help the others!" He moved through the cabin, his every step a battle against the listing angle of the sinking plane. He reached the mother, her eyes wide with terror, clutching her child to her chest, her life vest tangled in her shaking hands.

Frank's hands were steady as he fixed the vest, buckled it, made it secure. "You'll be okay," he lied, his voice firm, convincing. The mother nodded, mute with shock, her child clutching at her, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

The evacuation was chaos, the inflatable slides more a hindrance than help as the plane settled deeper into the ocean's embrace. Frank ushered the passengers out, his eyes sweeping, counting, making sure no soul was left behind.

Then, as the last of them slid into the roiling sea, the little girl's wail cut through the noise. "Mr. Bear! Mr. Bear!" Her teddy bear, a forlorn, fluffy sentinel, lay at the back of the plane, its glass eyes staring at the approaching water.

Frank cursed. Time was a thief, and it was robbing them of seconds with every tick of his heart. But he couldn't leave it, couldn't let that be the child's last memory of this day. He lunged back into the dying beast, snatched up the bear, and bolted for the exit.

The water was rising, a greedy predator that licked at his heels as he ran. He could feel the plane giving up, beginning its final descent to the ocean floor. He leaped from the doorway, bear in hand, and hit the water with a force that drove the breath from his lungs.

When he surfaced, gasping, the bear held high, the little girl's cry turned to one of joy, even amidst the horror. Frank swam to the life raft, the last to board, the bear his unlikely companion.

As the plane groaned and sank beneath the waves, Frank Baxter watched it go, the ocean claiming its prize. He'd done what he could, saved who he could. And as the survivors huddled together, waiting for rescue, Frank knew this was just the beginning. The secret society, the fight in the aisle, the crash — they were all just the opening moves in a game that was far from over.

The sea was a cluttered stage of flotsam and jetsam, a grim set for a tragedy that had played out too fast. Amongst the wreckage, life vests bobbed like bright buoys, each one a temporary lifeline for a dazed passenger. The water was littered with the detritus of the crash—suitcases, seat cushions, a child's doll with one eye missing, all floating on the indifferent swells.

Frank moved among the survivors, a shepherd counting his flock. His voice, when he called out, was rough but authoritative, a grounding force in the aftermath of chaos. "Name and count off!" he barked, his eyes scanning the faces that bobbed in the water, half-swallowed by life vests.

One by one, they responded, voices tinged with shock and the cold bite of the sea. "Harrison, one!" ... "Summers, two!" ... the count went on. Frank's eyes were keen, noting each survivor, making mental notes of injuries, of the terror still etched in their features.

Then he saw her, the woman from the plane, her auburn hair plastered to her head, her face paler than the foam on the waves. "Destiny," she said, her voice barely carrying over the water. "Fourteen."

Frank nodded, marking her safe, at least for the moment. She was a mystery still unsolved, a puzzle box tossed by the sea. But there were more immediate concerns now—keeping the survivors together, keeping them alive until help came.

The hours dragged by, each one a lifetime, the sun a relentless spectator to their plight. Conversations waned as the initial adrenaline wore off, leaving behind only the numbing reality of their situation. They clung to the hope of rescue, to the thought that at any moment, the horizon might bring salvation.

But the ocean had other ideas. First, it was just a shadow beneath the water, circling, curious. Then another, and another. The fins broke the surface, sleek and terrifying. Sharks, drawn by the chaos, by the blood spilled in the crash.

The panic was a living thing, quick to reignite. "Stay still," Frank ordered, his voice a low command. "Don't thrash. They're curious. If we don't seem like prey, they'll lose interest."

It was a thin hope, but it was all they had. They formed a tighter circle, the injured pulled into the center, the strongest on the outside. Frank's eyes never left the fins, his body tense, ready to defend, to fight.

Destiny was beside him, her eyes meeting his. There was a new respect there, maybe more. "What now, Frank?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper that carried on the water.

"We wait," he said, his gaze steady on the circling shadows. "We wait, and we survive."

The sharks were a menace, a threat beneath the surface, but Frank knew the real danger was still out there, somewhere beyond the waves. The secret society, the reason they were all here, was the bigger shark, and it was still waiting for its chance to strike.

For now, though, they were alive. They were together. And as long as Frank Baxter had anything to say about it, they'd stay that way.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky bled crimson, a wound opening up across the expanse. Night was coming, and with it, the chill of the ocean grew more insistent, an unkind reminder that their ordeal was far from over.

Frank moved among the survivors, his voice low but carrying over the water. "Keep together, stay warm. If you've got any fight left in you, now's the time to show it. We'll make it through the night."

They huddled closer, their collective body heat a shared treasure against the encroaching cold. Frank was at the center, his eyes sweeping the darkening waters, alert for the glint of a fin or the gleam of an eye. He had been many things in his life—a cop, a private eye, a brother, a lover—but never a castaway. Now he added that to the list.

When dawn broke, it was Destiny who first spotted the speck on the horizon. "A ship!" Her voice was a strained shout, the sound of hope reborn. Frank squinted against the light, his heart daring to skip a beat. She was right. There was a ship, a silhouette etched against the waking sky.

Using a piece of shiny debris, Frank angled the early sun rays, sending an SOS in Morse code, a beacon of reflected light. His hands were steady, each flash a desperate plea.

The ship changed course, a graceful leviathan of the sea turning towards them. It was a cruise ship, her white sides gleaming, her decks quiet in the early morning calm.

As the ship approached, a shark, bold in the dawn light, made its move. It cut through the water, a shadow bound for the little girl clutching her sodden teddy bear. Frank didn't hesitate. He plunged into the water, the cold a slap against his skin, and positioned himself between the predator and the child.

The shark came at him, its dead eyes fixed, its world one of hunger and teeth. Frank punched, a solid blow to the snout that sent it veering off. The ocean wasn't his turf, but he'd fight for it all the same.

Beside him, Destiny dove into the fray, her own battle a dance with death as she drove another shark away with fierce determination and a primal scream that echoed across the water.

The survivors were being pulled aboard the cruise ship, hands reaching down to lift them from the sea's clutches. Frank helped, his hands gripping forearms, his voice urging them on. But his eyes never left the water, never forgot the threat that lurked beneath.

As the last survivor was hauled to safety, Frank finally allowed himself to be pulled up. He stood on the deck, water streaming from his clothes, his gaze locked on the horizon. This was a reprieve, but not a victory. The society was still out there, and the game was still afoot.

For now, though, they were safe. For now, the only thing Frank had to worry about was getting dry and staying alive. And maybe, just maybe, figuring out the enigma that was Destiny.

####

The deck of the cruise ship was a strange oasis, its polished floors and sun loungers an absurd contrast to the ragged assembly of survivors dripping onto its surface. The crew distributed blankets and hot drinks, their faces masks of professional concern that didn't quite reach their eyes.

Frank stood amongst them, a soaked sentinel. His relief was a fleeting thing, a shadow that passed over his face and was gone. He knew the respite was temporary, the calm before another storm.

The ship's captain approached, his uniform crisp, the gold braid on his shoulders catching the morning sun. "Mr. Baxter, I understand we have you to thank for coordinating the survivors' efforts."

Frank's eyes narrowed just a fraction. "I did what had to be done," he replied, his voice gravelly with salt and exhaustion. "Now, Captain, I need to get to Cairo. It's vital."

The captain nodded, a little too eagerly. "Of course, we'll assist in any way we can. We're due to dock there tomorrow. I'll make arrangements for your expedited disembarkation."

Something in the captain's tone set off alarm bells in Frank's head. It was too smooth, too accommodating. Frank had learned to listen to the silent siren song of treachery, and it was playing a familiar tune now.

"I appreciate it, Captain," Frank said, keeping his voice even. "But I don't need any red carpets rolled out. Just a way to get there unnoticed."

The captain's smile was a study in ambiguity. "Unnoticed, Mr. Baxter? I assure you, your discretion will be our utmost priority."

Frank gave a tight nod, the exchange a chess match where he couldn't see all the pieces. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the too-helpful captain. In his experience, help was often just another word for manipulation, and he had been manipulated more than enough for one lifetime.

As the survivors were led away to be tended to, Frank hung back, his gaze sweeping the ship. He could feel the weight of hidden eyes upon him, the society's gaze as tangible as the sun on his back. Destiny came to stand beside him, her own blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders.

"Think the captain's on the level?" she asked, her voice low.

Frank shook his head slightly. "About as level as a funhouse floor. Keep your eyes open and stay sharp."

She nodded, the motion sharp and decisive. "What's the play?"

Frank looked out to sea, the horizon a line drawn in indigo. "We lay low until Cairo. Then we find my sister and Isabella before the society realizes we're still in the game."

Destiny's hand moved to her side, a subconscious echo of the place where a gun might rest. "And if the captain gets in the way?"

Frank's answer was a cold smile. "Then he finds out that I didn't come this far to be stopped by some two-bit sailor in a fancy hat."

The ship plowed through the waves, a colossus of steel and intent. Frank Baxter might have been out of his element in the sky, but on the ground—or in this case, on the water—he was still a force to be reckoned with. The captain, the society, whoever wanted a piece of him—they would get more than they bargained for. They would get Frank Baxter, and he was a hard man to kill.

Frank found a moment of solitude on the starboard side of the ship, away from the prying eyes and the well-meaning but suffocating care of the crew. The sea stretched out before him, a rolling expanse of blue that held both the promise of escape and the threat of hidden depths.

He leaned on the railing, the metal cool beneath his palms, and allowed himself the luxury of reflection. The crash replayed in his mind, a film reel stuck on the worst parts. The flight attendant's face as she lunged with the knife, her eyes when she had realized the game was up, the way the plane had shuddered on impact — it was all there in high definition. What was her angle? Blackmailed by the society or a true believer in their shadowy cause?

His thoughts shifted to Destiny. She was an enigma, her eyes holding secrets he needed to unlock. Was she another player sent to lead him astray, or was she as she appeared — a victim of circumstance turned ally? And the captain, with his too-ready smile and overeager assistance, was another puzzle. Did the society's reach extend even here, to this floating haven?

Frank's gut told him that the society's tendrils were long and their plans intricate. They wouldn't let the crash be the end. They would be watching, waiting for another opportunity to strike, to reclaim the initiative they had lost when Frank had survived their airborne assassination attempt.

He needed to be ahead of them, to move pieces into place before they could recover. Reaching into his pocket, he found a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil. His message had to be brief, coded in a way that only The Informant would understand. He scrawled a few lines, a shorthand that spoke of the crash, of survival, and of imminent arrival in Cairo.

The ship had a radioman, a relic from a time when wireless was a miracle rather than a given. Frank found him in a cramped cabin bristling with dials and antennae. The man was hunched over his equipment, a headset clamped over his ears. He looked up as Frank entered, a question in his raised eyebrows.

"I need to send a message," Frank said, handing over the paper. "Discreetly. It's a matter of life and death."

The radioman took the paper, his eyes scanning the coded message. He gave a single nod, understanding the gravity in Frank's tone. "It'll be sent within the hour," he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.

Frank clapped him on the shoulder, a silent thank-you, and slipped out. He had set his piece in motion; now it was time to see how the society would respond. He returned to the deck, his face set in a mask of calm determination.

As the ship cut through the waves, Frank Baxter prepared for what lay ahead. Cairo was a nexus of old and new, a city where the past was always present. And somewhere in that sprawling metropolis, Sarah and Isabella were waiting for him. He would find them, and he would bring them home. That was a promise carved in stone.

On the deck, with the sun now a low ember on the horizon, Destiny found Frank. She moved with a purpose, her eyes locked on his, her gait betraying none of the softness her name might suggest. She was steel wrapped in velvet, and as she approached, Frank recognized the kind of mettle that made her not just a survivor, but a fighter.

"Mr. Baxter," she said, her voice a smoky tune, the kind that filled the dim corners of late-night bars.

"Miss Destiny," he replied, a tilt to his hat brim that wasn't there. Old habits died hard.

They stood at the railing, the wind pulling at their clothes, the sea a dark tapestry beneath them. She leaned in, her story spilling out in a hushed torrent. She talked of Cairo, of a brother lost to the society's machinations, of revenge simmering in her chest like a slow-burning coal. She wasn't looking for salvation; she was hunting for a reckoning.

Frank listened, his expression a study in stone. "I've known a few dames with tales like yours," he said. "Tough shells with something soft left inside, enough to care, enough to hurt."

She gave a half-smile, bitter around the edges. "And what about you, Mr. Baxter? Are you all shell, or is there something soft in you too?"

Frank's gaze drifted to the sea, to the endless play of shadow and light. "Used to be," he admitted. "But softness is a luxury I can't afford. Not until this is over."

They stood in silence, the understanding between them unspoken but as real as the deck beneath their feet. She was a badass lady, alright — Frank could tell she didn't just carry a story; she carried a gun. And she knew how to use it.

"I can take care of myself," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "And I can help you. But I've got my own score to settle."

Frank considered her, the wheels turning. Allies were few and far between, and good ones were rarer still. "Alright," he said finally. "We've both got our reasons for getting to Cairo. But if we're going to work together, I need to know you're in it until the end."

"The end," she echoed, a shadow crossing her face. "I'm in it until then. You have my word."

It was as good as a contract signed in blood. Frank extended his hand, and she shook it, her grip firm and unyielding.

"Welcome to the fray, Destiny. Let's find your brother and my sister. And let's make the society wish they'd never crossed our paths."

She nodded, and they turned back to the sea, two silhouettes carved from the same hard block of need and vengeance. Cairo was waiting, a stage set for the next act of their drama. And when the curtain rose, Frank Baxter and Destiny would be ready to play their parts.

The ship's bar was a world away from the terror they had faced. It was all polished mahogany and the gentle clink of ice in glass, a haven of civilization floating on the savage sea. Frank and Destiny claimed a shadowed corner, the kind of place where deals are made and plans are drawn.

A steward with a face as impassive as a poker player approached, and Frank ordered two whiskeys. The steward nodded, moving away with the silent efficiency of the well-trained.

The glasses arrived, and Frank pushed one toward Destiny. "To the unknown," he said, lifting his glass in a salute to the future that lay obscured in the mist.

"The unknown," she echoed, her voice carrying the weight of a past that still clung to her like a shroud.

They sipped their drinks, the burn a comforting fire in a world gone cold. "So, when we hit Cairo," Frank began, his words a deliberate dance, "we'll need to find the keyhole before we can worry about the key."

Destiny nodded, understanding his meaning. They were talking in riddles, a coded language for prying ears. "The locksmith you mentioned, the one with all the answers — you think he'll talk?"

Frank's eyes flickered to the bartender, who was polishing glasses with the casual eavesdropping of his profession. "He'll talk," Frank replied. "He's a good man to have in your corner when the bell rings."

The bartender caught Frank's look and gave a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken conversation. Was he another piece on the board, a knight or a pawn in this game they were playing? Frank filed him away in his mind, a question mark to be answered later.

They talked for a while, skirting around the truth, laying out their plan without ever speaking it outright. They would start at the docks, where the pulse of Cairo beats strongest, and move inward, circling their prey.

As they stood to leave, the bartender leaned in. "The current's strong," he said, his voice low and laden with double meaning. "But it can be navigated with the right compass."

Frank studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp as a blade. "We'll keep that in mind," he said, and Destiny gave the man a look that said she understood the depth of his words.

They left the bar, the click of Destiny's heels and the solid thump of Frank's footsteps a duet that spoke of caution and coming storms. The ship sailed on, a world of light on the dark sea, and in its belly, two souls prepared for the battles ahead.

Frank Baxter knew the game was dangerous, the stakes higher than ever. But he also knew he wasn't playing it alone. Destiny was at his side, and maybe, just maybe, they had a bartender with a keen eye and a sharp ear.

The night deepened, the stars a scatter of diamonds above. Cairo was drawing closer with each turn of the propellers, and with it, the next move in a deadly game.

In the lounge where passengers gathered like gulls after a storm, talk turned, as it often does in the wake of disaster, to the whys and hows. Frank, nursing a coffee that tasted like burnt hopes, let the murmurs wash over him. Theories were thrown around like dice on a craps table, each gambler certain they had the winning roll.

One gray-haired gent with a voice that carried like a foghorn was holding court. "It's the Reds, mark my words. They've been itching to pull a stunt like this."

A woman with a pinched face and glasses perched on her nose countered, "No, no. It's those Middle Eastern factions. They're everywhere."

Laughter and nods followed each proclamation, the human need to make sense of chaos a palpable thing in the room.

Then, from a corner booth, a voice piped up, hesitant but insistent. "You're all wrong. It's bigger than that. It's the secret societies that run the show, the ones pulling the strings behind everything."

A round of scoffs and eye rolls greeted this contribution, the speaker a young man with unkempt hair and a wild look in his eyes.

Frank couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. If only they knew.

But the young man wasn't done. "They're the ones with the technology to bring a plane down. They've got their hands in everything—corporations, governments, even natural disasters. It's all connected."

The others were shaking their heads, chuckling at the man's fervor. But Frank's smirk faded. This wasn't new—conspiracy theories were as old as fear and ignorance—but there was a thread there, a string of truth in the tangle of madness.

He caught Destiny's eye, and they slipped away from the crowd, finding a quiet corner by a porthole where the sea's vastness was a reminder of their smallness.

"Did you hear that kid?" Frank murmured. "Most of it's just claptrap, but he mentioned technology—something we haven't considered."

Destiny leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. "You think the society has tech that advanced?"

Frank shrugged, the gesture heavy with the weight of the unknown. "I've seen things, heard things. If they can pull the strings he's talking about, who's to say they can't mess with a plane?"

Destiny's eyes were thoughtful, her mind working the angles. "So, what's our move? If they have that kind of reach..."

"We need to be smarter," Frank said, his voice a low growl of determination. "We need to find out what they're capable of, and we need to find out fast. That kid might be seen as a crackpot, but in his ramblings, there could be the seed of something we can use."

Destiny nodded, her expression set. "Then we start digging as soon as we hit Cairo. We find your informant, and we shake the tree until the truth falls out."

Frank looked back at the sea, its surface calm, a perfect liar. Beneath, who knew what monsters swam, what currents pulled. But one thing was certain: Frank Baxter and Destiny were swimming in deep waters, and they'd either find a way to navigate the depths or drown trying.

The ship was slicing through the waves like a knife through velvet as Frank and Destiny huddled over a nautical chart spread across a table in the ship's library. It was a room of polished wood and brass, the quiet hum of the ship's engines a constant drone in the background.

"We'll be docking at Port Said by morning," Frank said, his finger tracing a line from their current position to the port. "From there, it's a straight shot to Cairo."

Destiny leaned in, her hair falling like a curtain as she studied the map. "We'll need to keep a low profile," she said, her voice a soft murmur meant only for Frank's ears. "If the society suspects we survived, they'll be watching the ports."

Frank nodded, his eyes never leaving the chart. "We'll ditch the welcoming committee and find our own way inland. There are enough back roads and alleyways to keep us hidden."

They plotted their course, a weave of evasion and stealth, marking the map with invisible waypoints known only to them. Their plan was a tapestry of shadows, each thread a line of flight from the society's all-seeing eye.

As they talked, a flicker of movement caught Destiny's attention. She glanced up to find the bartender from the previous night, his eyes fixed on them from behind a shelf of books. His gaze was a little too intense, the interest a little too keen.

Without a word, she tapped Frank's hand and nodded subtly towards their observer. Frank's head came up, and he caught a glimpse of the bartender just as the man realized he'd been made. The bartender turned and slipped between the stacks, his steps silent on the thick carpet.

In a fluid motion, Frank and Destiny rose from their seats. The chase was wordless, an instinctive pursuit through the labyrinth of the library. The bartender was a wraith, always a turn ahead, a glimpse of a uniform disappearing around a corner.

They followed him out onto the deck, the sea breeze sharp against their skin. The ship was a small city, but it offered plenty of hiding places for those who didn't want to be found.

The bartender ducked into a crew passage, the door swinging shut behind him. Frank reached it just in time to feel the latch click into place. He pressed his ear against the cold metal, listening for footsteps, but the man had vanished like smoke.

Frank stepped back, his jaw tight. "He's gone," he said, his voice low and taut with frustration. "But why run unless he's got something to hide?"

Destiny's eyes were hard, her mind working the angles. "He's been listening, maybe reporting back. We might have just blown our cover."

Frank looked out to sea, the dark water an abyss that held their fate. "Then we change the plan. We can't trust the port, not anymore."

They returned to their quarters, their minds racing. The plan was in tatters, but the mission remained. Cairo was calling, and Frank Baxter and Destiny had no choice but to answer, ready or not.

Frank's cabin was a small box of solitude, the walls pressing in with the weight of the ocean outside. He lay on the narrow bunk, the ship's gentle roll a cradle that failed to soothe. Sleep, that elusive mistress, teased at the edges of his consciousness, a promise unfulfilled.

In the dark behind his eyelids played a cinema of chaos: the flight attendant's eyes wide with fanaticism, the glint of the blade, the sound of the gunshot. It morphed into the crash, the cold embrace of the ocean, and the panicked faces of passengers—a maelstrom of recent memories.

Then, like a tide receding, the images gave way to softer visions. Sarah's face, her smile that could light up the dingiest of rooms, the determined tilt of her chin that mirrored his own stubbornness. Isabella's eyes, the way they could cut through the lies and see right to his battered soul. He reached for them in his dreams, but they slipped through his fingers, always just a breath away.

The dreamscape shifted, and Destiny appeared, a silhouette against the storm of his subconscious. There was a toughness to her, a resilience that called to something deep within him. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, her allure as undeniable as the danger that clung to her like a second skin.

He wrestled with the feelings she stirred in him. It was like juggling dynamite—exciting, but liable to blow up in his face. Frank knew he was walking a razor's edge, his mission to save Isabella a beacon that had to guide his every step. There was no room for distraction, for the complication of emotions. He had to keep his head, now more than ever.

As the night deepened, the dreams came in waves, pulling him under, then casting him back to the surface. When he finally awoke, the room was gray with the pre-dawn light, and his resolve was steel.

He sat up, rubbing the stubble on his jaw, the plans for Cairo etched in his mind. The society had played its hand, but the game wasn't over. They had underbelly, and Frank was a man who knew how to hit where it hurt. He'd find their weak spot, and he'd exploit it.

For his sister, for Isabella, and yes, for Destiny—because whatever tangled path had led her to him, she was part of this now. He couldn't deny that he wanted her by his side when the final showdown came. And when it was all over, when the dust settled and the dead were mourned, then he'd think about the curve of her smile and the promise of her eyes.

Frank Baxter rose from the bunk, his muscles stiff but ready. He'd navigate the treachery, outwit the society, and save those who counted on him. The sea outside was calm, but he knew the storm was coming. He'd face it head-on, as he always did, with grit and a determination that was as unyielding as the ocean's depths.