Page 53 of Break Out the Girl

Nan always said there was no gain without pain, and that’s why we had to do the wooden spoon. I was never sure what I was gaining apart from a sore bum, but I’m sure Nan had it figured out.

The boy, Ricky, who is snuggled on my hooves, gives a shiver. “Can we go now please, sir?”

“Yes.” Shane turns on his heel toward the utility hatch. “Dépêche-toi, putain, London.”

I’m pretty sure that means ‘good job’.

He scoops Ricky off the floor. “Even though we’re removing the children, I still think we should disable the engine.”

Ooh, yes. The sabotage part of the plan.

I point a hoof toward a heavy iron maintenance plate set in the floorboards. “Right under there is the sea-valve intake for the lower hull. Sucks in the ocean water to cool the systems. One little hole and these geezers will get a proper sinking feeling.”

“Down here?”

I nod.

Shane drops to one knee, closes his eyes, and that super weird green-sizzle lights up from his hands. The iron plate stays solid on top, but underneath, I can hear a faint bubbling as his toxic goo eats the internal seals alive. Wowzers.

“That should corrode completely through the metal within ten minutes or so. You’re sure this will scupper them?”

“Sure will, Poopeye.”

Mental note, find out when Shane’s birthday is and get him a tin of spinach.

My sailorman-friend takes off with little Ricky, and I follow, Pepper and Sheena shuffling along between us. They seem the least doped up out of the four kids. We sneak through the service corridors like thieving alley cats. Through the bulkheads, the muffled, booming chaos of the outside world vibrates into my bones.

Keep your head down, Kitten.

When we reach the utility port the doors are still unlatched. I shove the hatch open, the damp fog rolling in, smelling of sea-salt and beautiful, freezing freedom. “OK, mateys, time to jump ship.”

It’s a tight, delicate operation, but the kids don't make a sound. Sometimes when you try to avoid nasty things, being silent is the only way.

I want to let my little peas know that we've got nothing nasty ahead, but I don’t know if that's true. Unfortunately, as far as I know, I don’t have psychic-abilities and things could go a bit wonky before we’re home and free.

OK, we’re all aboard.

Shane tucks the kids into the bottom of the dinghy, covering them with the damp sailcloth, as I take the oars and begin to row in the stealthiest manner possible.

Dip. Sluice. Repeat.

Music still blares from the jet boat, and guns continue to bang, but the pea soup gives us cover, thank you very much Fog-Gods.

Until the wind shifts.

A gust of coastal air whistles through the channel, ripping a hole right through the center of the rolling mist.

My horns nearly leap out of my skull.

Burt is at the helm of the jet boat, throwing up a frantic, foaming white wake as it zigzags across the swells. But it’s not the boat that makes me sweat.

It’s the water behind it.

A black fin is slicing Jaws-like through the waves faster than possible.

No, it has to be possible or it wouldn’t be happening.

“Shifter,” Shane growls and I see he’s right. The shark-thing has human arms that are paddling through the surf in a way only spooky supernaturals can.