“We’re flying off course,” Emme interjected. “Why?”
Barclay turned his attention to Emme, studying her with beady eyes.
Oliver felt her tense, but she waited for the man to answer her question.
“Miss O’Shea, we are not flying off course but merely avoiding the storm. We are a short hour outside Edinburgh as we speak.”
“I wish to see your weather charts.”
His eyes narrowed at her, and he didn’t bother with a smile. “And I’ll be askin’ you to return to the cabin.”
“Let me see the charts, Barclay,” Oliver said, “and we’ll return to the cabin. If we’re truly still headed for Edinburgh, you’ve no reason not to prove it.”
“This is my domain, Reed, and you’ll return immediately to your seats or I’ll have you detained in the brig by security ’tons.”
Emme shook her head, her lips thinned and tight with anger. “Daniel Pickett is my cousin’s husband, and your days as a pilot for this airline are numbered. If you truly are in his employ.”
She stormed down the stairs, and Oliver looked at Barclay, whose expression was thunderous as he watched Emme’s descent. A sickening feeling settled into his gut. “Where are you taking this ship, Barclay?”
Barclay turned his attention back to Oliver. “You’ll know when we arrive.”
Oliver grabbed the man by his lapels and pulled him close. “You’ll tell me now.”
Vindictive satisfaction crossed Barclay’s features. “Portugal.”
Oliver’s mouth slackened. “Por . . . Portugal?” He shook the smaller man. “Who is paying you to take us there?”
“I follow orders of some powerful people, Reed. Release me immediately.”
“I am placing you under arrest, Barclay, and demand you immediately set course for Edinburgh.” Oliver’s temperature rose, and he felt a vein throb in his temple.
Barclay broke Oliver’s grip and stepped back with a sneer, holding a ray gun—the kind Oliver saw only on the black market.
Oliver inched his hand slowly toward the holster at his side but stopped when Barclay’s eyes widened and he lunged forward, his hand steady on his gun.
“Get back to the cabin,” Barclay ground out through his teeth. “And don’t even think about parachuting. I had them removed. The only thing on board are Jump Wings, and I doubt your pretty friend knows how to maneuver them.”
Oliver stared at the man, breathing hard. “I suggest you enjoy your final days of freedom, you fool. You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
Barclay grinned. “Wish I could see Pickett’s face when he realizes one of his fleet disappeared right from under his nose, and with his best friend aboard. Pity you won’t be there to see his face, either.”
“Who hired you?”
Barclay’s grin faded. “Get out of my wheelhouse.” He put the gun in Oliver’s ribs and shoved. “Now.”
Oliver stared at him for a long moment before heading back down the stairs to the passenger cabin. He pulled his scriber from his pocket only to realize he had no signal. They were beyond the Tesla coils’ reach, even if he could plug into a stationary charger. He would have to devise a plan on his own to disarm Barclay and take control of the ship.
He ran a hand through his hair, a sense of urgency filling him, along with a heavy dose of hopelessness. Emme was going to be beside herself, and strangling Barclay would be first on her list of things to do.
He entered the cabin and made his way to their row only to find it empty. He clutched the back of his seat, staring. His travel case was still by the window, but Emme’s portmanteau was gone. Where on earth would she go? They were hundreds of feet in the air.
The lavatory. That must be it. He hurried to the small compartment at the end of the cabin, relieved to find it locked. She must be inside. He stood for a few awkward minutes until the door finally opened, but an older man exited, frowning as Oliver gaped at him.
Surely, surely she wouldn’t . . .
He told himself not to panic as he jogged the length of the cabin aisle to the exit. He took the stairs to the lower decks and began searching. Emme didn’t know there weren’t any parachutes aboard, and by her own admission, she’d never used Jump Wings. He passed a small infirmary and the cargo-hold doors, rounding the corner. His stomach lurched as he felt the ship jolt, and the hum of the Stirling Engine lowered in pitch.
He ran for the engine room, frowning at the lack of light within. Someone had switched off the lamps, and he tripped over one inert ’ton who lay near the Stirling Engine oil drum. Swearing, he pulled a small torch from his pocket. The ’ton’s back panel had been pried open, as evidenced by the bent metal, and the function tins had been pulled free, tossed on the floor beside the robot.
A noise across the room caught his attention, and he moved quickly to the controls, which had been shoved into a slower function. It was a crude maneuver, used in times of emergency, and he gritted his teeth as he flashed the light around the room. Of course, Emmeline O’Shea would have the wherewithal to engage the emergency procedures on an airship. The engines had been placed into a neutral position, still holding the ship aloft but hovering in a relatively small area.
“Emme!” His shout rang out as he flicked the light back and forth. Another disabled ’ton lay near the door, and he shook his head as he made his way across the room. He admitted a reluctant sense of admiration for Emme’s quick thinking but had to wonder how many ’tons she’d disabled in her life to render them useless so quickly.
What would she do now? Confront Barclay, most likely. His foot was on the bottom stair when he remembered her empty seat in the cabin, specifically the seat next to the window that now held only his travel case.
The few precious minutes he’d wasted outside the lavatory door had given
