Chapter 5
FRANKIE
Frankie limped across the grated walkway with the ache in her ankle throbbing like a second heartbeat. She didn’t bother looking back to see if Stone was following. He was. His heavy boots clanged behind her like a shadow she couldn’t shake.
She didn’t want a partner. Especially not some grumpy-ass commando who stared at her like she didn’t belong there.
She damn well did. She knew this rig like she knew every species of bird in her swamp.
He was the outsider here, and she had every intention of figuring out why the hell he was also sniffing around her rig.
Clenching her jaw, she pushed through her pain.
Wouldn’t be the first time she’d done that.
Pain came with her career choice. She’d once done a twelve-hour underwater weld in a pressurized chamber with a pulled shoulder.
She hadn’t quit then, and she wasn’t about to wimp out now over a twisted ankle.
As one of the few female welding specialists in the Gulf, she’d learned early in her career how to tough it out.
Men on the rigs were always looking for an excuse to say she couldn’t hack it.
“Where exactly are we going?” Stone asked behind her.
She stopped at a junction, glanced both ways, and turned left without answering. “This way.”
She quickened her pace.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yeah . . . it is,” she muttered.
As they moved through the old transport corridor, which was wide enough to drive a dump truck through, he caught up, falling into step beside her. “You know this rig very well for a—”
She stopped and spun to him, arms crossed. “For a woman?”
He held up his hands, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Ah. So you worked here. Interesting. What did you do?”
“None of your business.”
“Actually, it kind of is my business now that we’re partners.”
She started walking again and shot a glare over her shoulder. “What about you? Military? DEA? What?”
“None of your business,” he said, echoing her words with a faint smile.
“Then we understand each other.”
Silence settled between them as they wound their way through catwalks and shadowed maintenance tunnels. The deeper they went, the more she felt the rig wrap around her like a hug from an old friend. This place had been her world. Her life. The career she loved.
She hadn’t landed a welding job since she got booted off Blackwater Deep.
No one wanted a female welding specialist, even though she was more skilled than most male welders she’d met.
When the bills piled up, she was forced to take what she could get.
The only job she’d landed was a night shift janitor gig at Nelson sad, bitter, and wrong.
Her dad’s death only made it worse. The silence in her life had turned to quicksand that pulled her down, threatening to suffocate her.
She wasn’t sure what scared her more, the fact that she felt stuck in a pit, or the fact that she didn’t even know where to start digging her way out.
They descended several more levels, and the rig groaned around them like a sleeping giant. Frankie’s ankle throbbed with every step down the metal stairs, but she kept her pace steady, refusing to limp in front of him.
Stone kept touching his nose, adjusting it, testing it. It was red but not swollen. Maybe it wasn’t broken after all.
Shame.
The way he moved, always scanning, checking corners, and noting exits, screamed military. She’d met guys like him before on the rig. Ex-military. Pissed off at the world. They dragged their baggage into every room they walked into. Always looking for a fight.
The radio Stone had taken from the unconscious man crackled to life, making her flinch.
“Higgins, report in. Over.”
Stone turned the volume down.
“Higgins. Report.” The voice came again, sharp and angry.
“I guess the radio belonged to Higgins,” she muttered.
“Yeah, and they’ll be real happy when they find him.” He shook his head. “Let’s go. We need to get out of here.”
“What? Hell no. We’re not—”
“Frances,” he hissed. “We need to—”
She spun on him. “Call me that again, and I’ll make sure your nose stays crooked for good.”
His eyes burned into her. “We need to go.”
He grabbed her arm.
“You can go,” she snapped. “I’m here now, and I’m not leaving until I figure out what the hell these bastards are doing on my rig.”
She feigned a punch at his nose.
He flinched back just enough for her to yank her arm free.
She stormed off, and he chased after her.
Let him try to stop me. He’ll regret it.
As she hurried along the walkway, voices rose from below, muffled, but unmistakable. She paused at a grated hatch and, crouching, she peered down.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.
“What?” Stone stopped beside her and followed her gaze.
“They’re using the dive platform,” she said, standing. “Follow me.”
Instead of heading for the main stairwell, she darted past it and stopped at a sealed hatch set into the wall. She grabbed the handle and yanked. The hinges shrieked in protest as the stiff door creaked open.
“Secret passages are kind of my thing,” she said, ducking into the narrow, cylindrical shaft. Pipes lined the walls, stretching from the deep ocean up to the guts of the rig.
She reached for the ladder.
“Let me go first,” Stone said sharply.
“I’ve got this.”
“Frankie,” he hissed, tapping the barrel of the rifle slung across his chest. “I’m going first.”
His tone left no room for debate.
Shrugging, she eased back. “Suit yourself. Don’t fall.”
Stone climbed onto the ladder without hesitation.
She called after him, “The ladder runs through five levels. Stop at the fourth, or you’ll drop right onto their heads.”
“Copy that,” he said, and disappeared down the shaft.
She followed, descending as quickly as her burning ankle allowed. The ladder was slick with condensation, and her gut clenched. The added moisture meant the bottom hatch was open. It shouldn’t be.
As they continued downward, the air grew heavier and thicker with damp heat and the familiar sharp tang of brine and diesel.
Somewhere below, an engine roared to life, drowning out the creak of the ladder and masking their descent.