Chapter 17
FRANKIE
The corridor blurred past in streaks of red emergency light and steel shadows as Frankie and Stone sprinted toward the main control room.
Welding masks, gloves, cutters, and everything else they’d scavenged clattered against her side with every step.
The gear was heavy. The Kevlar they’d strapped her into was too big.
Her ankle throbbed like a bastard, but she kept pace with Stone.
He hadn’t said a word, but the tension coming off him was like heat from a furnace. His eyes scanned every hallway they passed, and his body was coiled so tight it was a wonder he could move, let alone run.
He hadn’t told her what he’d heard in his earpiece, but his urgency was enough. He was expecting trouble.
So she was too.
But none came. No men chased them. They didn’t have to dodge bullets. The only sounds were the constant groans of the rig dying around them and the echo of their boots on the floor.
She didn’t trust the silence. The bastards who took over her rig were out there. Somewhere.
They reached the main control room and pushed inside. The door hissed shut behind them, sealing them in a steel-and-glass nerve center. A row of flickering monitors stretched across the far wall, each one showing a different aspect of the rig.
One screen featured the helipad.
Stone pointed at the screen. “Shit! We don’t stand a chance.”
She thumped his shoulder. “Yes, we do. We got this far. Let’s finish it.”
“Copy that.”
He clenched his jaw, all soldier and so damn handsome, her breath caught.
He pointed at another screen. “There. That’s inside the server farm.”
The room was about the size of a forty-foot shipping container. Half a dozen men were hunched over terminals with their backs turned to the camera, unaware they were being watched. Or maybe they were used to it.
“It’s time to give those bastards a headache.” Frankie strode toward the storage cabinet at the back of the room. She yanked it open, and grateful no one had cleared them out, she scanned the shelves for the items she needed.
Stone stepped in beside her. “What are you looking for?”
“Corrosive liquids,” she said, grabbing a bottle of bleach and handing it to him.
She found industrial vinegar, aluminum foil, and a funnel, and shoved them into a canvas bag.
“That should do it. Grab that metal thermos,” she said, nodding toward the top shelf. “Maintenance-grade chemistry. This is all we need to melt through half their cooling system in minutes.”
Stone nodded but tapped his earpiece and as he listened, his face tightened with anger. He met her eyes. “We gotta move.”
They added the chemical haul to their welding gear and took off again.
Stone scanned the corridor and nodded at her. “Where to?”
“This way.” She led him down a tight flight of metal stairs into one of the many cooling system access areas. Pipes hissed all around them as seawater rushed through the veins of the rig. Valves clicked and groaned as the pressure adjusted, loud and random, yet so familiar.
Memories flooded back. Good ones. The rhythm of the system. The hum of precision. Working with her dad. Feeling needed.
They dropped the equipment beside a row of floor-to-ceiling pipes, and while Stone stayed alert, weapon ready, she knelt and popped open an access panel.
“This was my dad’s plan,” she said, pulling out their chemical stockpile.
“We sabotage the cooling system with our little cocktail, inject it into the saltwater intake, and let the system do the rest. No alarms. No fail-safe triggers. By the time they realize something’s wrong, it’ll be too fucking late. Sayanora, bastards.”
She tugged the compact cutter from her pack, then slung the battery pack off her shoulder and clipped it into place. She pulled on her gloves and mask and flared the cutter to life until the blue arc burned hot and clean.
Stone stepped back. “That thing rig-built?”
“Dad’s design,” she said, slicing into the panel. “Lighter than tanks but just as mean.”
“You sure that’s safe to run with?”
“Not even a little,” she said, grinning behind her mask as the flame arc chewed through steel.
Stone stood behind her, weapon raised, eyes locked on the corridor as she moved fast, slicing through the outer panel and exposing a tangle of seawater pipes. Steam hissed around them, and valves twitched with shifting pressure.
She went to work on the backup sensors, clipping fiber lines and pressure triggers with clean, practiced snips.
Then she made a cut into a secondary line that was just wide enough to fit their chemical cocktail device.
Switching the torch to a pinpoint flame, she used it to melt a tiny hole into the plastic lid of the thermos.
Satisfied, she flicked off her mask and gloves. “Now the fun part.”
Using a funnel, she poured the vinegar and then bleach into the thermos. Then she shredded the foil and shoved it in.
The chemical reaction hissed loudly and violently, bubbling like it was alive.
“Shit,” Stone muttered. “That thing gonna blow?”
“No,” she said, twisting the lid on tight. “We don’t need a bomb. Just a little acid in the bloodstream.”
The hole she’d made in the lid was just big enough to let pressure force the corrosive mix out slowly.
She jammed the thermos into the open pipe, pulled her gloves and mask back on, and welded it in place with quick, confident strokes. The weld held, even as the hiss grew louder.
“That cocktail’s gonna eat through the cooling lines and flood the intake with corrosive sludge,” she said, backing off.
“You sure one’s enough?” Stone asked.
“It’s not about volume. It’s about where you feed it.” She rubbed her hands on her jeans. “Shall we watch the fireworks?”
“Absolutely,” Stone said, grinning with her.
They snatched up her welding gear and bolted up the stairs. Frankie led him to a secondary monitoring station, which was tucked away from the main command center. At the desk, she dropped into the chair and jiggled the mouse to wake the screen.
“Let’s see if they changed Dad’s password.”
She typed in her birthdate, then: Frankie-Girl
The monitor came to life, filling with icons and commands.
She turned to Stone, grinning. “We’re in.”
He frowned. “Why would they keep your dad’s password active?”
Her grin widened.
“Because no one knew he had a backdoor.” She clicked through a few menus. “Now, for your feature presentation on Blackwater Deep tonight . . .”
The security feed loaded, and she cycled through the cameras until she found a new window that hadn’t been there last time: Data Server. Live footage.
The screen switched, and the same long corridor of server stacks they’d seen earlier filled the monitor.
Stone leaned in. “How long till this works?”
“About five minutes,” she said, eyes locked on the screen.
On the control panel next to the monitor, the heat signatures flared across the screen, glowing like molten veins through the server stacks. Warning icons blinked in rapid succession: coolant failure, thermal spike, containment breach.
In the live feed, the men scrambled into view, shouting, tripping over each other, jabbing buttons. Red lights strobed across the walls.
Stone chuckled. “They look confused.”
Frankie didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “They’re about to look terrified.”
A burst of steam shot from a vent overhead, fogging the lens for a second. One of the techs backed into a rack that was glowing red-hot, yelped, and stumbled away clutching his hand.
Frankie leaned back in the chair, arms folded, grinning. “Now that’s a meltdown.”
One man was tall and lean, with a silver streak in his beard and a clipboard in his hand, like he was running his monthly review. He turned toward the camera.
Her breath caught. Her smile died. She sat up straight. “Oh fuck.”
“What?” Stone stepped forward.
“That’s Alan Vincent.” She surged forward, fist slamming the desk hard enough to rattle the screen. “No. No, no, no!”
“Who’s he?”
“That fucking bastard was our friend. We worked shifts together many times. Dad’s known him since they were kids. He came to our house many times. He came to Dad’s funeral.” Her voice trembled, but her rage sharpened every word. “He’s working with these pricks. He helped shut the rig down.”
“Hey, keep it down.” Stone squeezed her shoulder.
She jabbed a trembling finger toward the screen. “One hundred and sixteen people lost their jobs because of him.”
Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry. She burned.
“I’m going to get him. I’m going to make him look me in the eye and admit what he’s done to us. To Dad.”
She shoved the chair back and stood so fast it toppled behind her.
“Frankie—”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “I knew someone was involved. I’ve been trying to figure out who for months. Because of him, Dad was murdered.”
She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms and turned toward the door.
Stone grabbed her wrist and swung her into his chest, wrapping her in a bear hug.
She beat her fists against his chest. “Let go of me—”
“Not now,” he said, voice low and solid.
“Let me fucking go.” She struggled against him.
He held her tighter, arms locking around her like steel. “We’ll get him, Frankie. I promise. But we have to finish this first.”
She didn’t respond, just breathed hard as her rage radiated from her like heat from scorched steel. Finally, she sagged against him.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “We worked together. Alan taught me how to read pressure curves. Alan and Dad used to fish together all the time. I can’t believe he’d do this.”
Stone didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then he tensed. His arms stiffened around her, rock hard.
“What?” She looked up at him.
His eyes were locked on the screen.
She followed his gaze. A new man had rushed into the server room, barking orders and motioning the others into position. She’d never seen him before.
The man turned toward the camera, and Stone took a half-step back, like someone had punched the air out of him.
“What’s wrong? Who’s that?” Frankie’s breath caught as she braced for his reply.
“Another fucking bastard! Nick O’Halloran.” His tone was as hard as steel.
And the storm in Stone’s expression made her blood turn cold.