Chapter 3
FRANKIE
Frankie tried the door handle again. Locked.
An exit door should never be locked! Dickheads!
A shadow moved behind her. Gripping her knife, she spun toward the threat, keeping the blade low and angled perfectly to separate the bastard from his family jewels. One clean slice and he would regret setting his sights on her.
Before she could think, cold steel pressed against her throat. The edge of the knife was so sharp she felt it catch on her skin with even the slightest swallow. She froze, lungs seizing mid-breath as her muscles locked in place.
“Don’t move.” His voice was a low rumble against her ear, measured, and dangerously calm.
Her pulse hammered against the blade.
“Who the hell are you?” she hissed.
“Funny,” he breathed, his word brushing her ear like a puff of steam. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
His face was mostly in shadow, but the green glow from the exit sign above the door allowed her to see enough.
He wasn’t the sloppy menace of the usual bayou lowlifes.
He was controlled and precise. And annoyingly handsome.
She caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the shadow of his stubble, his perfectly straight nose.
His fused intensity was the kind that screamed military.
But another option hit her like a crane boom. He was a mercenary. A man who cleaned up loose ends without leaving traces.
The kind of man who made her father’s so-called heart attack look natural.
Rage, cold and sharp, sliced through her fear. He wasn’t dressed like the goons she’d seen skulking around earlier, he wasn’t wearing tactical gear. Just dark, functional clothes. So who was he? And why was he here?
It didn’t matter. He was in her way. And he felt dangerous.
She needed distance. Now.
“You’re mercenary, aren’t you!” Her lips curled in contempt. “How much are they paying you? Enough to cover a pretty new nose?”
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Lady, I don’t know what—”
Before he could finish, Frankie spun to him and snapped her head forward, driving her forehead into the bridge of his nose just like her father had taught her.
A crunching sound echoed obscenely in the confined space. He grunted sharply. His grip faltered as he buckled forward, and the blade at her throat trembled and jerked away. She ducked low and drove her knee up, hard and fast, into his groin.
A strangled groan tore out of him as he staggered, clutching his jewels as he doubled over in pain.
“Son of a—!” His curse broke into a choked gasp, raw and guttural.
Frankie didn’t stick around to admire her handiwork. She bolted, boots pounding against the grated floor as she plunged deeper into the complex structure of the rig. The harsh metallic clang of her footsteps echoed faintly in the oppressive quiet.
This place was a maze, but it was her maze. She knew its twists and turns, its hiding spots and dead ends. She thought he wouldn’t catch her.
But he was. His footsteps pounded behind her, closer than she liked.
Damn it. He’s gaining on me.
He’s fast. Faster than anyone his size had any right to be.
The clanging of their pursuit reverberated through the rig’s skeleton like a goddamn safety drill alarm. Every step could be broadcasting their location to the armed men lurking somewhere in Blackwater Deep’s belly. If they heard her and came looking, she was dead.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she pushed harder, her lungs burning. She had to lose him. Fast.
Ahead, the corridor split. To the right was a long, exposed stretch that offered no cover. To the left, a square hatch was set into the floor, the entrance to the rig's desalination plant.
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
He was closing the gap, his large frame devouring the space between them. Anger radiated off him like heat off a welding torch. His movements were deliberate despite the pain etched across his face.
Frankie’s breath hitched. Shit! I don’t have time to use the ladder.
Her gut screamed no. Every instinct begged her to stop.
But she didn’t listen.
Frankie threw open the hatch and dropped into the darkness below without hesitation.
The fall felt endless. Her stomach lurched as the air rushed past her.
She hit the metal grating hard, and her left ankle twisted with a sickening crack. Pain, white-hot and blinding, ripped up her leg like a live wire. She bit her tongue, and the taste of copper flooded her mouth as she choked back the scream clawing at her throat.
She scrambled upright, pushing through the agony, and hobbled out of the dim light. Adrenaline dulled the edges of the pain as she melted into the shadows.
A low growl came from directly above. “That was monumentally stupid.”
Frankie spun to the voice with her knife flashing up defensively. He dropped down through the hatch and landed with infuriating ease, a predator’s grace that made her feel clumsy and slow in comparison.
Her breath hitched as she saw the gun. Matte black. Smooth. Deadly. He held it steadily, aiming directly at her chest. Her knife felt laughable, yet she tightened her grip on the handle.
“Piss off, asshole!” She shifted her weight onto her good foot. Showing pain or weakness was not an option. She’d been working on that mantra nearly her whole life.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low and tight.
The dim light caught the dark streak of blood running from his nose, trailing over his top lip.
Good.
“Who hired you?” she snapped, forcing herself to focus on him and ignore the relentless fire in her ankle.
“Nobody hired me.” His words were clipped and sharp, like they were barely held in check.
“Sure,” she said through gritted teeth. “Says the hitman.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not—”
He broke off abruptly, his head tilting, eyes narrowing as though he’d heard a noise that she hadn’t.
The light caught his eyes at just the right angle to reveal his blue irises. No, not just blue, startlingly blue.
Frankie blinked, hating herself for noticing. She stepped back, her knife still raised and her balance precarious as her injured ankle throbbed like hell.
“Why are you here?” he growled, his voice low and rough.
Frankie matched his glare. “Why are you chasing a woman through an abandoned oil rig after she rearranged your face?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw and his lips pulled into a thin line. “You’re trespassing on a dangerous site, and you assaulted me.”
“You put a knife to my throat!” She shifted her weight carefully to her good foot, forcing herself to stand tall, refusing to show weakness.
“You tried to castrate me.”
“Believe me, you’d know if I tried that.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. “You nearly broke my nose.”
“You deserved it.”
“Debatable.”
Her grip on the knife tightened, yet the adrenaline was wearing thin, and her ankle throbbed like a motor. “You have ten seconds to explain why you’re here before I make sure you don’t have to worry about your nose, or your balls, ever again.”
His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating as they locked onto hers. The tension between them tightened.
Above them, faint footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by low voices.
They both froze.
He snapped his gaze to the hatch opening above, then back to her, his expression was focused . . . and dangerous.
“Quiet,” he hissed as he closed the distance between them in two quick strides and grabbed her arm.
She tried to pull away. “Don’t touch me—”
His hand clamped over her mouth. Frankie’s protest died in her throat as he spun her around, yanking her back against his solid frame. Without a word, he dragged her into the deepest shadows under a tangle of steam pipes.
His arm pressed hard across her chest, pinning her in place, and as she struggled, her fury only increased at how easily he’d overpowered her.
“Stop moving,” he murmured, and his breath brushed her ear. The uninvited warmth sent a shiver down her spine, and she hated herself for feeling it. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”
The voices above got louder. Frankie stopped moving and forced herself to listen.
The footsteps halted.
“Is it ready?” a voice asked in a gravelly, no-nonsense tone.
“Almost,” another answered, higher-pitched and weird, like the guy’s jocks were two sizes too small.
As she strained to pick out details, anger boiled in her stomach. If she recognized even one of these bastards, she was going to rip out their throats.
“Are you sure?” the first man pressed, suspicion lacing his question.
“Yes. We just need the final sequence initiated. So a few more days, tops.”
“About damn time,” the first man said, dripping with impatience. “This waiting game is fucking pissing me off.”
“I know. Me too. But we needed to make sure the legs were prepped properly.”
The legs.
Her stomach twisted. Dad’s secret notebook had mentioned the legs. Her mind whirled, piecing fragments of her father’s notes together. Whatever these guys were doing on Blackwater Deep, it was big. And it was happening soon.
A realization gnawed at her awareness. The man holding her in a grip that was firm but not cruel wasn’t with them.
He was listening just as intently as she was, and his body was as tense as hers.
The voices and footsteps receded down the corridor, fading into the distance. The silence that followed was filled with the sound of their ragged breathing and the rig’s relentless, metallic groans.
The solid wall of muscle still pinned her in place. His strength was absolute, and fucking infuriating.
Frankie tightened her grip on her knife.
Maybe I should stab his leg. Let him know I’m not a goddamn pushover.
As the thought lingered, he slowly released his hand from her mouth. His arm eased a fraction from across her chest, as though he were testing her next move.
Frankie twisted in his grip to face him, her knife still held firm in her hand. Yet the immediate threat felt different now, with blurred edges that added to her confusion. She hated how her skin still tingled where his hand had been.
Their eyes met, but his were unreadable in the dim light.
“Still think I’m with them?” he asked, his voice a low, quiet rumble that seemed to vibrate through her.
She glared at him, her breath uneven as her pulse hammered in her ears. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I know you’re not telling me the truth.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not the enemy. I’ll tell you that.”
“Yeah, right.”
He cracked his neck side to side. “What’s your name?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
“Name,” he growled, his patience thinning.
Her lips curled in a smirk. “Why? You gonna add me to your hit list?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Irritation crackled in his voice. “Give me your name.”
“Daisy Duke.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Goddammit. You’re a fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”
Frankie bristled, her knife still raised between them. “Yeah? Well, you’re no Prince Charming either.”
His expression hardened. “You still think I’m one of them?”
She didn’t respond. Her mind raced to fit the pieces together. He wasn’t one of the rig operators she used to know, and he didn’t dress like the armed bastards who she’d followed there earlier. So who the hell was he? And why was he here?
He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him and smell the faint, clean tang of saltwater and something sharper. Chili pepper? Gasoline? The combination was strange, unexpected, and lodged itself in her brain.
“I’m letting you go.” His voice was low as he holstered his gun. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like trust you?” she shot back.
His eyes caught hers in the gloom, flickering with determination, intensity, and a depth that made her pulse stumble.
“Take your kayak and get the hell out of here.” His words were a blade, slicing through any pretense of negotiation.
“You’re not my fucking boss.”
“This isn’t a game, Daisy Duke.” His tone sharpened.
She tilted her chin up defiantly, locking eyes with him. “Yeah. No shit.”
“Look. I don’t have time for this.” His voice dropped, colder and harsher. “You’re injured, and you need to get out of here before—”
“Before what?” she blurted, her voice edged like steel.
“Before you can’t.”
The threat hung between them, sharp and unyielding.
They stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Hers blazed with defiance; his burned with a hardness that refused to yield.
Then, without another word, he strode away, melting into the shadows like he knew exactly where he was going.
Frankie stood alone in the darkness, and the constant creaking metal pressed down on her like a brick. She used to love that sound. It had made the rig feel alive and vibrant, like a beating heart powered by the men and women who worked their asses off to keep her running.
Fat lot of good that did.
Her ankle throbbed with a relentless, burning pain demanding attention. She pressed a hand against the cold metal wall to steady herself, testing her weight with a careful roll of her foot.
Bloody hell. This wasn’t good. Running wasn’t an option. Climbing ladders would be agony.
Her fingers tightened around the knife hilt before returning it to the sheath on her belt. She didn’t care how much her ankle hurt. She wasn’t leaving until she figured out what the hell was going on.
Get out of here.
His words echoed in her mind, sharp and urgent. Leaving would be the smart thing to do. The sane thing. Head back to her kayak, retreat to her swamp, heal her ankle, then return. Then she wouldn’t have a muscle-bound mercenary with stunning blue eyes invading her space.
But since when did I choose the smart option?
And the voices she’d overheard wouldn’t leave her mind.
The legs are prepped . . . final sequence . . . a few more days.
Her chest tightened. Dad hadn’t died of a heart attack. She’d never believed it for a second. Whatever was happening on this rig, it was tied to his death and to the shutdown that had cost over a hundred jobs and had ruined her life.
Then there was him: blue-eyed Prince Charming. He might not be the enemy, but he was a damn mystery. A frustrating, dangerous mystery. One who clearly had an agenda.
Don’t do anything stupid, he’d said.
Too bad for him, stupid was practically her middle name when someone she cared about needed justice.
Pain or no pain, Frankie wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
Her ankle screamed for attention, but her mind was already churning through possible locations of where those bastards were hiding on her rig.
She pushed off the wall, testing her weight on the injured ankle. Pain shot up her body like a live wire, but she clenched her jaw and took another step.
And another.
Sometimes, stupid was the only option left.
She wasn’t afraid of dying for her cause.
She just hoped it didn’t come to that.