Chapter 16
STONE
Gunfire hammered them from both ends of the corridor. Stone fired into the dark, sweeping his aim from corner to corner, but they had no visual on the shooters and no fucking idea how many there were.
They were pinned, with no backup and no exit.
Their only cover was a rusted support beam and a busted valve panel, barely enough for the five of them to hide behind.
At least they were all in Kevlar. Even Frankie. Small mercy. But a vest wouldn’t stop a headshot.
Patch and McGuire fired down range. A high-pitched scream cut through the noise, then abruptly cut off.
“One bastard down,” Patch muttered.
Stone gripped Frankie’s shoulders. “Where’s the nearest exit?”
The green strip lights cast her face in a sickly glow. Grime and sweat streaked her cheeks, and her eyes burned with fear, yet she was holding it together . . . just.
“Frankie!” He dug in his fingers. “We need you.”
She sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing as she scanned the corridor. She pointed behind them. “There’s a shaft, back the way we came. But we’ll have to shimmy down a pipe. It’ll be tight.”
“Then that’s the plan.”
He turned to McGuire. “Exit’s behind us. Let’s lay down cover and move.”
“Roger that.”
He nodded to Patch and Cross.
“You cover the rear.” He pulled Frankie close, placing her between him and Cross. “Stay tight. Tell us when to stop. Got it?”
“Yes. Got it.” Her voice steadied. The panic was gone.
Stone raised his rifle. “Cover fire! Move!”
Cross and Patch lit up the corridor behind them. Stone and McGuire laid fire ahead.
Staying low, they crouched and moved as one through the deadly gauntlet. Echoing gunfire boomed about them. Muzzle flashes strobed off the steel. The whole corridor thundered with the blistering attack.
Two more tangos screamed before Frankie shouted, “Stop! Here!”
As gunfire ricocheted around them, Frankie sat to kick a grate inward. The rusted lattice crashed into a dark void. “This is the shaft.”
“Go!” Stone barked. “I’m right behind you.”
She slid in without hesitation, grabbing the pipe and dropping away fast like she’d done that move dozens of times.
Stone turned to his men. “Follow us, tight and fast.”
He wriggled into the gap. His boots scraped steel as he dropped into the chute. The pipe was slick with grease, and he fell fast. He landed hard on a narrow ledge no wider than a rifle case and looked up.
Boots thundered above.
He pressed flat against the wall as Patch dropped down beside him, landing with a grunt.
Shouts echoed from above. Gunfire cracked. A man screamed.
McGuire came next, followed by Cross. No sooner had they touched down than gunfire ripped down the shaft.
“Cover,” Stone yelled as bullets sparked off the walls, forcing them back.
“You’re gonna die, you fuckers!” a man roared above them.
Cross stepped forward and fired a burst straight up the shaft.
A scream followed, then a heavy thud.
“Target down.” Cross grinned like he’d won the lotto. “Who’s gonna die?”
Stone looked at Frankie. Her face was pale, drenched in sweat, but her eyes burned with focus.
He guided Frankie into the middle of them, and the others closed in tight. They were wedged into a narrow alcove, half-covered by stacked tanks, rusted gear, and a busted compressor. Cramped as hell, but enough cover for now.
The bastards hunting them couldn’t drop in without being picked off one by one on the way down.
Frankie’s chest heaved like she might puke or scream. Maybe both.
Cross fired another burst up the shaft as Stone, McGuire, and Patch reloaded in sync.
“We need to split,” Stone said, locking eyes with his team.
“No.” Frankie grabbed his wrist. “We can’t. We need to stay—”
“No.” He cut her off, jaw tight. “We’ll never shut this place down with those bastards on our backs.”
McGuire nodded at him. “So what’s the plan?”
“We split,” Stone said. “You three draw fire. Lead them away, keep them guessing.”
Frankie looked at him, panic tightening her face. “What if they get trapped again?”
“We won’t,” Cross said, swapping places with Patch. “If we’re not aiming for a designated target, we can move freely and confuse the fuck out of them. Pick ’em off one by one.”
“I like the sound of that,” Patch said, slamming a fresh mag into place.
“Good,” Stone said. “While you keep them busy, Frankie and I’ll finish the job.”
Frankie met his eyes. Her face was a storm of fear, confusion, and straight-up fury tangled together.
“Roger that,” Cross said, aiming up the shaft and firing two quick shots.
Stone clapped him on the shoulder. “When I tell you to evacuate, you move fast. Okay? No questions.”
McGuire gave a tight nod. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”
“Copy,” Patch said.
Stone chambered a round into his Colt 1911. “See you topside.”
Patch grinned and clapped Stone’s shoulder. “Let’s finish this.”
Stone gave a tight nod, then turned to Frankie. “Which way?”
They locked eyes, and in the space of a breath, trust, fear, maybe more, passed between them. “This way,” she said, pointing as she took off.
Patch fired another burst up the shaft as Stone peeled off and sprinted after her. The gunfire faded behind him, but the weight of leaving his men in the fight didn’t.
Frankie moved fast, limping when she forgot to mask it, yet still pushing through the pain.
Steel grated under their boots, and every move echoed. Stealth meant slowing down, and they didn’t have time. He counted on the gunfight behind them to drown out their location.
The deeper they went, the more the rig groaned around them, like the whole damn beast was pissed that bullets were tearing through its bones.
Frankie moved like she knew the place by feel and had memorized every access point, some obvious, but many were not. It was like she was a master player in some twisted game of Snakes and Ladders.
He never asked if she was okay. She wouldn’t want that. He just moved in beside her whenever there was room for it and covered her without a word. Like instinct.
Like she was the mission.
They rounded a corner and ducked into a side shaft. Frankie stopped long enough to pry open a narrow access panel.
“Shortcut,” she said, tugging aside a thin metal sheet. “Used to take this way when I was sneaking off shift.”
Stone gave her a quick grin. “Rebel.”
“You have no idea.”
They dropped into a service shaft where red emergency lights blinked slowly. The air turned colder, and the whole damn place was quieter. In his earpiece, his men talked like they were just out on a run, calm and collected. The gunfire said otherwise.
Stone pushed forward, following Frankie deeper into the ribs of the rig, a place that had once been her whole world.
A world torn out from under her.
Just like his had been.
The parallels hit hard. Different lives, different uniforms, but the same damn wounds. Both of them ripped from careers they’d bled for. Both grieving someone they loved. Both ready to die for the truth.
But she wasn’t dying. Not here. Not today.
He would make damn sure of that.
Halfway down a narrow hallway, Frankie veered left and slipped into a small room.
“My office,” she said, breathless, spreading her hands wide. “And Dad’s.”
Every dusty surface was lined with welding gear, cutting torches, spools of wire, and half-built components. The walls were cluttered with clamps, gauges, and custom jigs. A lifetime of skill, sweat, and know-how was packed inside these walls.
Yet it felt untouched, like the world had ended and no one told this room.
A flicker of deep sorrow crossed her face as she stepped forward and ran her fingers along a crowded benchtop.
“I grew up in here,” she murmured. “Used to sit right there while Dad worked. He always smelled like oil and burnt metal.”
Stone felt the ache in her voice. He wanted to pull her close, let her fall apart, but there wasn’t time. Not while his men were still in a gunfight.
“Frankie,” he said, voice steady, “why are we here?”
She crossed to a row of scorched and well-worn welding masks hanging on the back wall.
“We need gear,” she said, grabbing a mask and handing it to him. “Here. Hold this.”
He took it as she moved to the battered workbench that stretched along one wall with tools scattered across it. Then her shoulders sank as her hand closed around an old ceramic mug, and grief hit her like a wave.
Stone strode to her and laid a hand on her arm. “Hey.”
She turned, tears spilling down her face.
“That was Dad’s mug,” she said, voice breaking. “It’s all I have left of him. Just this. Nothing else.”
“Then we’re taking the mug with us.”
He pried it from her fingers, and turning it in his hand, he read the lettering: “Best Dad. Worst Jokes. Ask My Kid.”
A shaky laugh slipped from her lips, tangled in a sob. “I gave him that for his fortieth. Just that. A dumb mug.”
“A mug he clearly loved.” Stone tucked it into the front pocket of her vest. “Okay. Now what else do we need?”
“Sorry. Sorry.” Wiping her eyes, she grabbed a pair of worn gloves from the opposite wall.
As she moved, Stone’s eyes caught on a framed photo tucked behind a spool of wire. He pulled it free. The picture was of Frankie and a man he assumed was her father, both in overalls, both laughing, both smeared in grease.
He smashed the frame against the bench, shook the glass loose, and pulled out the photo. Then he handed it to her. “Now you have two mementos.”
She laughed all wobbly. “You really know how to break a girl down, Stone.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her finger, and sniffing, she carefully folded the photo and slipped it into the front pocket of the tactical vest that hung loose on her frame.
“Dad would’ve liked you,” she whispered.
“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t like me much if I don’t get his daughter’s sexy ass off this rig in one piece.” He hated rushing her, but there wasn’t time. “Come on. We gotta roll.”
“All right, ya cranky bastard.”
Stone’s earpiece crackled.
“Stone,” McGuire’s voice barked through his comms. “We’ve got a breakaway crew. Three or four armed men, and I think they’re heading your way.”
Stone turned to Frankie, eyes hard. “Fuck. We need to go!”