All Chapters of ALHPA ABRAM: And the four daughter: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

"Hold the railing, Elara! If you slip into the intake vents, there’s nothing left to save!" Vane’s voice ripped through the scream of the wind, barely audible over the metallic screech of the platform’s crane arm. He lunged forward, his fingers snagging the salt-crusted collar of her jacket just as a swell hammered the support pillars.Elara’s boots skidded on the wet steel. "Get your hands off me! I’m moving!" She shoved his arm away, her breath coming in jagged, burning gasps. Rain lashed her face, mixing with the sweat slicking her neck. Every muscle in her core felt like it was being twisted by a hot iron."You're white as a ghost, Elara. You can't make the jump to the skiff in this surge," Vane shouted. He checked the mag in his sidearm, his eyes darting to the stairwell behind them. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of heavy boots on metal gratings echoed from above. Sloane’s Cleaners weren't searching anymore. They were closing in."I don't need your help to jump," Elara spat. She

"Check the intake, Abram! The pressure is dropping and this whole goddamn deck is tilting!" Vane’s voice cracked, a jagged rasp against the roar of the seawater rushing through the punctured hull. He slammed his shoulder against a jammed lever, the rusted metal groaning but refusing to budge.Abram didn't look up from the child cradled in the crook of his arm. He adjusted the blood-streaked blanket, his fingers trembling as they brushed the infant's cheek. "The Council is already on the perimeter, Vane. They’re not waiting for the pressure to drop. They’re coming for the boy.""Then move!" Vane lunged forward, grabbing Abram by the strap of his tactical vest. He hauled him toward the narrow maintenance shaft. "The skiff is gone, but the emergency pods in the lower bay might still have power. Move your ass, Silas!"They scrambled down the ladder, their boots clanging against the wet rungs. The air in the lower levels was thick, tasting of brine and ozone. Every few seconds, the rig shu

"Hold the table, Elara! If you slip now, I can't reach the artery!" Abram’s voice cracked, a jagged rasp against the roar of the timber snapping in the hallway. He jammed his boot against the base of the heavy oak desk, bracing his weight as the floorboards groaned."I'm... I'm trying! Ahh! F**k, Abram, it’s burning! Everything is burning!" Elara’s fingers clawed at the polished wood, her nails leaving deep, ragged scores in the mahogany. Her head thrashed back, the cords in her neck standing out like steel cables. Sweat and ash streaked her face, mixing with the hot tears that evaporated almost as soon as they hit her skin."Breathe. Just goddamn breathe!" Abram lunged for the small kit on the floor, his hands slick with a mixture of salt spray and the dark, fresh blood already pooling on the rug. He didn't look at the smoke curling under the door. He didn't look at the orange glow eating the wallpaper. He looked only at the raw, distended skin of her abdomen.The "Emotional Pendulum

"Check the perimeter, Vane. If a single Council drone picks up the heat from this cellar, we’re done before the sun hits the horizon." Abram shoved the heavy stone hatch upward, his shoulder muscles bunching and screaming under the strain. Dust and ash filtered down, coating his sweat-slicked face in a grey mask.Vane didn't move from the shadows. He sat against the damp brick wall, his breath coming in shallow, wet wheezes. He gestured with a blood-stained hand toward the ladder. "I’m not... I’m not checking s**t, Silas. My lungs are half-full of Atlantic salt. You go. Take the girl. Take the brat.""You aren't staying here to rot. Get up!" Abram barked. He grabbed Vane’s collar, hauling him toward the light.They emerged into the ruins of what was once the Silas pride. The estate was a skeleton of charred black timber. Smoke rose in lazy, thin ribbons from the garden where Sloane’s body was currently being reduced to bone meal. The air tasted like burnt plastic and expensive scotch.

"Pull the net, you lazy bastard! The tide is turning and I’m not losing this haul because you’re staring at the horizon again!" Old Marco spat a glob of brown tobacco juice onto the salt-crusted deck, his eyes like glass shards under a frayed captain’s hat.Abram didn't snap back. He didn't even look up. He hauled the heavy, slime-slicked nylon over the gunwale, his back muscles bunching and rippling under a shirt that had long ago surrendered to the scent of diesel and dead scales. His knuckles were raw, the skin split and scabbed over from months of salt-fretting. He moved like a machine—heavy, deliberate, silent."Yeah, yeah. Just keep the boat steady, Marco," Abram grunted. His voice was a jagged rasp, unused to anything more than three-word sentences. He shoved a crate of silver-bellied sea bass toward the hold, his boots skidding on the fish guts coating the floorboards."You're a weird one, Silas. Or whatever the hell your name is today," Marco muttered, turning the wheel with