Page 47 of Break Out the Girl

Tally grunts, his jaw tightening. “No, it happens now. The men at the mansion will be too busy playing fireman. I guess they’ll leave reporting the problems as long as possible to cover their own asses.”

There is that.

“Besides, if we wait until nightfall, Kitten,” London runs a hand through his wild hair. “The big ship will have sailed away down the alley, alley, oh.” He gives me a smile. “But we do need a plan. Pretty sure they’ll have a bloke with a very large gun checking invitations. And much as I think we look marvelous, I don’t know if Rex gave us clothes that fall under the style-guide of ‘Conclave billionaire.’”

That is not an understatement.

“The last time I was on a mega-yacht it had two entry ways,” François chimes in. “The main aft deck where the Elites board from their own vessels, and the lower utility port on the starboard side—the scullery and storage hatch. It sits barely three feet above the waterline.”

“And the swimming deck,” London adds. “Don’t forget that.”

“That bottom door is locked solid,” Basil snaps, crossing his arms. “It’s got those massive electronic magnets. I got a good look at it once. If you try to smash it open, a buzzer goes off upstairs, then they’ll slide big metal walls down to trap you like a rat in a bucket.”

Tally turns his head slowly, his golden eyes locking onto the kid. “You know a way around the locks, kid?”

“I saw the delivery dudes fixing it when they brought me in,” Basil says, his chin lifting with a bit of a smirk. “There’s a little box on the outside of the boat. You have to clip one of the wires to kill the magnets so the door goes dead. It gives you a little over a minute before the backup power turns them back on.”

François lets out a low, appreciative hum, a chilling smile touching the corner of his lips. “Thank you, young man. That is pertinent.”

“Fuck off, grandad,” Basil mumbles.

I hide a laugh. I don’t think François knows how to talk to kids. Not really a surprise, but I might have to tell him to cut back on the condescension later.

“I know exactly which wire, too,” Basil mutters, leaning back. “The blue one with the yellow stripe. Cut that one, and the door pops right open. Touch the red one, and the whole ship goes mental.”

“A minute is all we need,” Tally nods, apparently mapping out the timeline in his head. “London, you and François take the dinghy. We drop it from our stern a quarter-mile out. You use the oars—no engine noise—and slip right under the starboard exhaust where their radar can’t track the wood hull. François cuts the wire, and you get Sky.”

“And what are the rest of us doing?” I ask, looking at Tally's frowning face.

“Me and you are the loud part, Rory,” Tally says, a fierce lethality in his eyes. “We take the jet boat, have the music blaring, make them think we’re drunk, partying idiots. We draw every guard and every gun to the port side of the ship.”

“And if they open fire on us?” I ask, trying not to let any nervousness be heard in my voice. But truthfully, it sounds like we’ll be sitting ducks.

“They can fire, but they’ll have a job to hit us,” Tally growls, his hand slipping around my waist possessively. “This boat is fast, and the fog is thick.”

“I’ll go with grandad and weirdo,” Basil says, trying to stand up on his wrapped foot before immediately wincing and sinking back down. “I know where everything is and you twats don’t have the first idea.”

Tally looks at him. “You think your ankle is ready for that? Seems like a stretch.”

“Fucking fuck,” Basil grumbles, slamming a fist against the vinyl bench. “Can you at least get me a proper gun or a knife while you’re in there?”

“Will do, Fuckwad,” London agrees. “The stabbiest one I can find.”

Gods. Is this going to work? The plan is tenuous at best, based on guesses.

At least we have François’s Basilisk, and Tally’s wolf jaws.

“We can do this,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “Sky needs us.”

Basil turns his face toward the dark water. I feel terrible for the kid. Here we are doing everything we can to rescue our friend, but is anyone searching for him?

“We’ll be approaching The Carnivàle in about fifty minutes,” François tells us, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “So start brainstorming all the possible permutations of this excursion. As Baudelaire said, ‘nothing can be done except little by little.’”

Basil pokes me hard in the arm. “Are we really taking advice from a French douche-bag who looks too posh to own an asshole?”

“Yes, Basil, we are.”

He huffs down into his oversized life jacket.